Well…here we are. Again. December is here-which means, Son, that you are another year older. The third day of the twelfth month of the year will mark your 11th year of life. And while I marvel at this, I can’t help but recall that when I was 11, I got my period, so….at least you got that going for you.
Is that too far?
Nah. You’ll see the video later this year.
This past couple of years I’ve had to become accustomed to not getting to wake up each day with you and also spending what seems like month-long weekends away from you and Daughter. I gotta tell you that as much as you drive me absolutely mad, I just miss you so. damn. much when you’re gone. Well…I mean…like after you’re gone for a couple of hours. The first couple of hours are okay. But then I start to become agitated and aware that nobody is beating up Daughter and wait-where the hell is she?….oh yeah she’s with you and Dad so I’m pretty sure you’re out there fighting somewhere….. which means that you’re probably driving Dad absolutely mad but MAN-it sure is unsettling when I’m not yelling at someone every 7 minutes to keep their hands to themselves. That’s basically what my resumé is going to say: Job Experience: yelling every 7 minutes, followed by excessive bear-hugging, and snacks. I feel like this is a major selling point to any prospective employer.
One thing that has never changed with you, Son, is how much you like your hugs. And your back scratches. And being thisclose to me as we lie on the sofa together at the end of the day, watching some god-awful show. You must admit that you have horrible taste in entertainment. It’s true. You’re basically the worst. Why, just the other movie night I had to pry the remote from your sweaty little hand and remind you that I AM THE BOSS and WE ARE GOING TO WATCH FIELD OF DREAMS, NOT some crappy Henry Danger rerun, which was followed by our yell/hug/snack routine. The very fact that I had to force one of My Offspring to watch the greatest baseball movie of all time was a tough one for me to take. We all know baseball is the best sport and also that Iowa is, in fact, Heaven.
But back to you.
Each year when I take out the Christmas decorations, there is a small photo of you in a holiday themed frame. I remember receiving the frame and picking out the perfect picture of 3 week old You to put in it. I remember thinking how much I was going to love taking out that photo every year and be reminded of how you’ve grown and how small you were and how magical and scary it was to become your Mama. Each year, I unwrap it carefully and run my fingers over your baby face and shake my head at the seemingly impossible fact that you are more of a young man than a baby. I look at that photo and I am instantly transported back to that moment of being a new, young mom with this Beautiful Baby Boy and no idea what to do except love you like crazy. I mean, I fed you and changed your diaper and all that-have a little faith, please, Son. But the moment you were placed in my arms, the moment I heard your sweet cry, I knew that all I really knew was to love you. And even though I’ve gotten a few things right and a few more wrong, it’s still pretty much all I know to do with you. Love. And put bacon in your lunch sometimes.
Because remember how we do it? Yell. Bear hug. Snack.
I am proud each day to be your Mama. The days you’re with me. The days you’re away from me. All the days of all the life, I will always be forever grateful to you for making me Mama.
Happy Birthday, Baby Mine.