A Letter To My Son On His 3rd Birthday
Three years ago I went into labor after our neighbor Kim suggested I walk the malls to get things going. You were four days overdue and although I was becoming uncomfortable I was reminded of the advice of my OBGYN. “You know that when the baby comes out you will have to take care of him.” So I took a few laps around Nordstrom’s, picked up a pair of Tory Burch flats, and returned home to let your father know that I was pretty sure my water was about break all over the kitchen floor, but I’d need to eat an enormous bowl of spaghetti before I was trapped in a hospital room.
Upon our arrival at the hospital I was surprised to hear I was pretty far into the baby delivering process. Because I have a weird aversion to odd numbers I asked that whatever doctor was on duty wait to pull you out until after midnight. “Can you yank him out of my baby cavity after 12?” So your father pulled out his laptop to catch up on work and I called several of my girlfriends because I thought they might enjoy watching a human being be pulled out of my vagina. The moment you were born I was watching Jason Segel host Saturday Night Live. My sweet boy was born in the middle of my favorite show. We were meant to be.
I have watched you grow into a sweet young man, a smaller version of your father. You share his kindness and optimism. Your teacher likes to tell me that during earthquake drills instead of covering your own head you put your hands on those next to you. During circle time at the end of class you kiss the hands of the friends beside you. You remind your classmates that everything will be okay when they fall or need help cleaning up toys. You adore your two sisters. Your baby sister waits for you to kiss her goodnight before she lets us take her to bed. Your older sister leaps into your arms the moment she walks through the door after a day at school. You make sure we get them presents on your birthday.
I am imagining a lifetime spent watching you break girl’s hearts.
You are one spectacular boy, even though you hate car rides and become nutty after three hours on an airplane. I adore you even if you only eat chicken nuggets, have zero interest in being potty trained, and prefer hanging out with your father.
I am still trying to understand why you look so much like President George Walker Bush.
I am so thankful for the opportunity to be your mom. Happy Birthday, love.
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