Dear Baby Boy,
Hey, you. You came into the world at just the right time.
There’s a lot to say about your arrival – the path paved by infertility and issues, the details of a diabetic pregnancy, the specific chaos of the c-section surgery that brought you into the world – but those moments are so ten days ago. There’s plenty of time next week to write about that. Today, we are celebrating YOU.
It’s funny how much it feels like you’ve always been here. I think it’s because the promise of you has been orbiting our brains for years. Actual years. I remember sitting with your dad at a restaurant three Christmases ago, clinking glasses to the agreement that our family wanted one more friend. (Yes, we officially cheers’d to the idea of you. It was a contract, sealed with a grin and some Riesling.) We had no idea what was to come for the next few years. There are elements we’ll never discuss again comfortably, as it picks the edges of a wound that may never fully heal. But we move forward, grateful for you.
You’ve made me a mother for the second time, your dad a daddy for the second time, and your birth gave Birdy a new name entirely: big sister. The tectonic plates of our family heaved and shifted to make room for a little boy who would make us complete, despite any tremors of adjustment. (Like when you peed on Birdy while she was holding you. “He’s so cute and he’s holding my finger, Mom! Look, he’s … AHHHH HE PEED ON ME THERE’S PEE ON ME FROM HIIIIIIIM!”)
And now I’m raising a little boy instead of a little girl. But there’s no real difference, despite the slight fear I had upon learning your sex. “What do we do with a boy?”, but hearing your cry after they pulled you from my body answered the query definitively. What do we do with you? We love you. Intrinsically. Without fear. (Okay, with some fear. Babies are a little scary.) We love you unconditionally, just like we do with your sister. We’ve loved you for years, only we didn’t quite know who you were yet.
Now, you’re this tiny, wiggly little brown haired biscuit who lives in our home. My abdomen remains tender from your exit, but that fresh pain is the only reminder that you haven’t been here forever. What do you mean, it’s only been ten days? You’ve only been here for ten days? It’s only ten days of holding you? I feel like you’ve been pressed against my heart for years. Strange to think that I first held you in my arms just a few days ago.
I love you. And for a long time, I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to hold you. I feared you were going to be a lingering promise, a hope, a “maybe” for the rest of my life. Your cry pierced the air of the operating room at the same time it did my heart, and I’m realigned, rearranged, revised, refined, fully realized forever.
I was waiting for you. You, you, you. Kid, telling you “I love you” doesn’t even begin to touch how much I feel for you. You fill the fourth chair. You filled that place in my heart that opened up three years ago. My family feels complete, as does my life. Tough times are behind us, and I’m sure there are equally-as-tough moments ahead, but we’re in this for the long haul, and our family is stronger, better, solidified by you.
Even when you’re angry at me for not letting you have the car keys (or the self-driving car codes? I have no idea what we’ll fight over in The Future …), you’ll always be my chubby little tomato, snuggled close at 3 in the morning, burping directly into my face and then smiling.
Welcome to the family, little one. You were missed.