A Letter to My First Born

Happy birthday to my first born. You made me a mommy, and six years ago I was privileged to meet you. When you took your first breaths your tiny arms flailed against the cold air; first sensations in this big world are overwhelming. I brought you to my chest, snuggled your soft skin to mine, and you settled into me. My world changed in that moment, and together we began our journey as mother and son.

I marveled at the way that your tiny body had grown from a poppy seed to the perfect baby I held in my arms. Watching TV while you slept on my chest, I breathed you in. Anytime your sweet, round head was near me, I kissed it, impulsively and subconsciously. I inhaled your baby scent, taking in the magic and wonder of your life. I played with your tiny toes, tickled your squishy, round belly, and booped your button nose. I was both awed and terrified that God gave you to me.

Then you started to grow, your little fat feet becoming more slender with arches. Those little feet took you from a crawl to a toddle to a run. Your baby rolls slowly disappeared, along with that cute dimple in the back of your neck, and those kissable, squeezable cheeks that I adored. Your hair, when it finally graced your bald head, grew darker and thicker with time. At six years old, you’ve now lost all vestiges of baby. In fact, you’ve lost your little boy looks as well.

My love for you is great and overwhelming, but our relationship can be complicated at times. It could, on occasion, be described as contentious. After all, you’re a lot like me. We love big, but we feel lots of other emotions big too. Sometimes we take those big emotions and launch them at whoever is closest, and that’s not pleasant for either of us. We are practicing the art of apology and forgiveness together. 

I see in you the introvert and socially anxious soul that lives in me. It makes me cringe when I see your shyness hold you back from things I know you would enjoy. I remember the feelings myself, I still face them as an adult. It’s painful to watch because I want you to be braver than I am. I am trying my best to encourage you to be brave, but to support you when you don’t want to be. I didn’t realize it would be so hard to balance the fine line of encouraging versus pushing. You hate to be pushed. So do I. Every morning on the way to the bus stop, I pray for God to make you brave as I hold your hand in mine. I know He’s answering it, and I see you actively breakthrough your fears. When you look to me after doing something brave, it makes my heart happy. I hope you’ll always look for me.

I also see your dad in you. I see his analytical side in the way you constantly take in the world around you. You’re piecing things together, finding patterns and connections in the seemingly mundane. You don’t miss a thing. You’re learning and soaking up this world like a sponge, and the things your young mind comprehends amazes me. You also have Dad’s compassionate side. Your desire to help others, to meet the needs of the people around you, is strikingly beautiful. Of all the things I love about you, and there are so very many, your compassion is my favorite.

As my first born, I’m still learning with you. You’re the first one I tackle each new stage and season with. This year, you’re my first kindergartener. Next time I blink you’ll be my first teenager. I can almost guarantee you’ll complain at some point about how much we let your younger siblings get away with that you could never do (and your uncle will sympathize with your lament.) We’re learning as we go, you and me. One day I hope you’re surprised to find out that this wasn’t easy for me. And in so doing, I hope you’ll forgive me for all of the times I got it wrong.

Sweet boy, you have driven me crazy, but I am crazy in love with you. You have challenged my authority, but you’ve also challenged me to grow as a person. You are a precious gift from God. I am humbled that He would trust me with you. I am proud of you. I love you more than you can comprehend, and Jesus loves you far far more.