Dear Son,

Dear Son,

Having you taught me the true meaning of unconditional love. To feel so much for another soul that all voice of reason leaves and my instinct screams at each and every moment to protect your heart. Some of my proudest moments in my life have been navigating through the unknown; all 9 years of your existence and growing more and more proud of the human you are becoming.

Obviously you feel the same because the reciprocation of my deepest, truest love is presented to me in daily reminders I seem to have titled – “this little <explicitive>’.

For instance, the other night I pretty much wrestled you into your own bed, even though you were so tired your laughter was sprinkled with delirium. Your only concern at this point should have been how long it would take you to enter into blissful sleep, while on the other hand, my worries were 50 assignments to take, packing your lunch, getting your uniform ready and checking on you about 35 times before I lay down to make sure your fever hadn’t returned. Yet, even with this easy option, you still came up with every excuse in the book to stay up “just an extra 5 mins” which naturally ended up with me spending 15 minutes explaining to you why that was not a valid option and then having to clap my hands in declaration as I reminded you just who the boss was.

When you were good and ready, you laid your sweet sweet face down and I remember asking God why I was so lucky to have been given you. I gushed over your brilliance until I walked into my bathroom and found the toothpaste portrait you left on my previously clean counter, that might I add, would have definitely been Rafiki approved because your poor job of cleaning up this “masterpiece” was reminiscent to the faded Simba that came back from Rafiki’s smudged tree art.
Oh my son, you are actually the gift that keeps giving.

I digress; I was bragging about your obvious love for me.
Last week, I had the cramps given to Eve herself for her treachery, along with every other symptom found on a Midol bottle. I spent all 13 minutes it takes me to get to your school, consciously zenning out and coaching myself through the reasons why unlike everyone else, you didn’t deserve this funk. ONLY, to pick you up and my overly rehearsed “Hi Honey” was returned by a guttural sound because apparently my 3rd grader had a really tough time at recess.
My apologies son, I didn’t realize YOU were having a tough day today – let me chauffeur your behind in silence so I don’t further irritate your mental.

Again, I digress.
The moments I watch you sleep, or watch you glow into your own being – I am filled with the most intense feeling of love. I love your sour patch butt with all of me. Being your mother has been a mixture of perfect instagram posts with a healthy dose of “Snapped” moments embedded within. I wouldn’t change any of them for anything because you have the ability to melt my heart with your smile, while giving me a strong urge to melt you because of your genetically inherited sarcasm that is way too familiar to the type my sister dishes out to me, with ease and perfection. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you and and I hope if nothing else you always know and believe you are my definition of “a gift from God”.

In my 33 years of life… you are my greatest accomplishment. My purest reason to love. My greatest push to be better – and the humbling factor that reminds me that imperfection is in fact acceptable. I’m grateful to have been chosen as the humanly vessel you get to call mommy and will always show up for you even when I am completely unsure of what that means.

I love you my *steps on LEGO piece*


Hugs and Kisses,

2 thoughts on “Dear Son,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s