I was scared when I met you.
I was in pain from two agonizing hours of pushing. I felt raw, shaken. They placed — no, practically threw — a slimy little you onto my chest. I might have smiled, but I know for sure I grimaced. There’s a photo of me holding you just moments after birth, and it says everything: pain, confusion, exhaustion… and fear. Your head was a cone. You were slippery. I didn’t know what to do, and somehow everyone expected me to just know — to slide right into motherhood like it was instinctual.
What the hell am I doing?
I was never the girl who loved babies. I didn’t ooh and ahh. Even now, I hear kids shrieking in public and 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, when I’m hormonal or emotional, I feel a twinge of baby fever — but mostly? Not for me.
I joke that I don’t like kids… except my own. But it’s true. I find most kids loud, difficult, and not nearly as cute as everyone else seems to think. I have zero tolerance for public tantrums — even yours. When it happens, I go into full panic mode. My heart races. I scan for the exit.
What I’m trying to say is: you’re the only kids I want.
Motherhood hasn’t come naturally to me. 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 mother you. We both fumble. We both say the wrong things. We both get frustrated. But we catch each other.
I teach you how to fix your words. You tell me I’m okay when I cry. You say, “It’s okay, Mommy,” 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 dance to “The Git Up,” and we dance through life. You drive me up the wall, and you calm me down in the same breath.
Today, you’re five.
And I keep thinking, how is that possible? How have I known you so long? Why don’t I have a handle on this by now?
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 then 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 fragile and I was terrified I’d break you. Now you scare me because I’m terrified I’ll mess you up.
You’re different. I used to call it “weird,” but now I know — it’s unique.
You’re gentle. You’re kind. You’re loving.
Sure, 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 are smarter 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 teaching you, too — about books and writing, true crime and trivia, all the weird facts I’ve collected over the years.
And I’ll keep telling 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. I still don’t know if I’m doing it “right,” but I do know this: the world is better because your sweet soul is in it. And I will do anything I can to keep it that way.
Happy birthday, Caleb.
You made me a mom.
You make me hopeful. You make me afraid — because the world is scary and you’re too precious for it — but mostly, you make me better. You are funny. Quirky. Unique. You are everything I’ve always wanted to be.
And how lucky I am… that you are mine.
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