Dear Mason,
Three years ago today… that’s when we met. It was scary knowing I was supposed to love you. That I HAD to love you. I mean, we just met, kid! But I knew it had to be some sort of new love that had never touched me before. Cause we looked like hell, me and you. Bruised and bloody with tubes sticking out of us… you were so tiny. A very manly tiny, of course. The first time you looked at me, you cracked your left eye open, right eye closed. My lil pirate. Then you farted. My lil man.
I thought I loved you then… I would have done anything for you, already. No one told me that love could only ever grow. Even if they had, I couldn’t have believed them. Three years later I can see I only had the smallest, most primal idea of what a mothers love is. Love that gets up every time you call my name. Love that squeezes my throat, choking me when you are in pain.
Everyday I spend the majority of my time trying to make you smile, giggle, laugh, pee your pants, not pee your pants, laugh some more. I didn’t count on you being able to make me laugh so effortlessly. You have it down to a science… some magic mathematical formula, the ratio of trouble to amount of hilarity to get you out of said trouble. And it makes you so happy to be able to make Mommy and Daddy laugh… our own definition of love.
We sit and count your freckles. I know every freckle. You have names for each. I know them all. Many are named Pirate though, so it makes it easier. We draw pictures… you wait until you are done to decide what you drew. Lots of snakes and worms and octopi.
You are such a gnarly kid… you’re sweet and tough… loving but feisty… strong but sensitive… you can wrestle with Daddy then run over to the Beav and give her gentle kisses and hugs. You love to do things yourself… but you want Mommy there just in case. You’re smart. You are so effing smart. You are everything any one could ever want in a kid. Times a million.
Happy birthday, my little Meathead.
I love you kid…
With all my heart…
To Never Never Land…
Like a fat kid loves cake…
Love, Mommy
It happened. You grew up. It happens. I 'grew up' at the ripe age of 35, that's when Melissa was born. Children have a way of doing that to a person... all the things you so eloquently shared above. Thanks for sharing. I feel like I know you a little better. And as a grandparent I can tell you "It only gets better".
ReplyDeleteLove & Hugs, Uncle Bill & Aunt Pat
I want to make a witty joke, but that was so sweet...don't worry I wont tell anyone. Happy Birthday Mase!
ReplyDeleteawwww sandee... so sweet :) happy birthday pirate!!!
ReplyDelete