For the boy who taught me how to love like this.
I was scared when I met you.
Two hours of pushing left me raw and shaken. They set your tiny, slippery body on my chest, and I froze. There’s a photo from that moment, and it says everything: pain, exhaustion, confusion… and fear. Your head was a cone. You were fragile. I didn’t know what to do, and somehow everyone expected me to just know — to slide right into motherhood like it was instinctual.
All I could think was: I have no idea what I’m doing.
I was never the girl who loved babies. I didn’t ooh and ahh. Even now, when I hear kids shrieking in public, I think, Dear God, just take them home. When a friend hands me their baby, I politely hold them and can’t wait to pass them back. Sure, they’re cute — and sometimes I feel a wave of baby fever — but mostly? Not for me.
I was never a natural with children. Other people’s babies made me nervous, and even now I panic at the sound of a tantrum — yours included. But then there’s you. With you, it’s different. With you, I found the only place where motherhood finally feels like mine.
Motherhood hasn’t been easy. I’m not graceful or patient. I’m not calm or collected. I’m still figuring it out — right alongside you. You’re learning life; I’m learning how to be your mom. We fumble. We lose our tempers. We get frustrated. But we catch each other.
I try to teach you how to use your words. And you use them on me — whispering, “It’s okay, Mommy,” when I cry, or when Holden breaks something and I lose my cool. You comfort me. You teach me. You help me grow — just as much as I help you.
We’re learning together. We blast “The Git Up” and laugh until we’re out of breath. You push me to the edge, and you pull me back in the same moment.
I compare myself too much. I watch other moms do it all with grace while I’m barely getting us out the door. I drop you off at Mimi’s, then sprint into work, always frazzled, always late. I wonder why it’s so hard for me. Is it hard for them, too? Do they lose their patience and choke on guilt like I do? Do they question if they’re doing it right?
Maybe they wonder, too.
You scared me back then because you were tiny and breakable and I didn’t trust myself. Now you scare me because I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong and leave marks I can’t undo.
But you see the world in your own way — gentle, curious, and entirely your own.
Yes, you throw tantrums, but you’re soft at your core. You’re sweet. Funny. Observant. You belt out songs with the wrong lyrics but all the right joy. You hold things gently. You apologize when something breaks. You think before you act.
Your long, slender fingers — “piano fingers,” people say — move with care. You read signs and maps and name every highway in Rochester. You’re sharper than you should be, and more emotionally attuned than many adults I know.
I hope you always ask questions. I hope you always say, “I missed you, Mommy,” when I get home from work. I hope you always wear your heart out in the open. Don’t ever stop being soft in a world that will try to harden you.
I’ll keep trying to do right by you.
I’ll still mess up. I’ll still leave your homework in my car and scramble to find socks every morning. I’ll still yell too loud, then cry about it later.
But I’ll keep learning. And I’ll keep sharing what I love with you — books and writing, Halloween and stories, all the little things that make the world bigger.
And I’ll keep reminding you to love your brother, no matter how many times he throws your toys or ruins your game — because he’s your only one. I only have one, too.
Five years have flown by… but I remember when time crawled.
The sleepless newborn nights. The panic. The doubt. I told your dad and grandma that I couldn’t do it. I meant it.
But I did do it. I am doing it.
It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. And I’m proud to be your mom. Today is yours, but it’s mine too. We were both born that day — you into the world, and me into motherhood.
You are five. I am five, too.
Five years a mother. Five years of becoming — a boy, a mom, an us.
Happy birthday, Caleb.
You made me a mom. And you changed everything.
Five years ago, I held you with shaking hands. Now I hold you with something steadier: love that will not let go.
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