Dear Number 3

Dear Number 3,

There is a page in your baby book where I am supposed to write you a letter.

You are nine and a half years old, and that page is still blank.

I’ve been waiting for that moment to hit me when I knew just the perfect thing to write. Because one day when you are older, you will open up that book and read through all the pages.

And I wanted that letter to be perfect.

I figured that moment would hit on one of your birthdays. Maybe the first or last day of preschool.

I certainly didn’t expect for it to be on a random Monday in January.

But it was.

I want you to know something.

When Daddy and I got married, Number 1 and Number 2 were still young.

And I loved them very much.

When I became a mom to them, I had to change a lot of things about myself.

But I was still kind of a mess.

I was unhealthy. Both mentally and physically.

And then I found out I was pregnant with you.

And you didn’t just change my life.

You saved it.

Because I had you inside of me.

And the unhealthy things that I could hide from Number 1 and Number 2 couldn’t be hidden from you.

Daddy and Grammy and Papa had tried to get me to change the unhealthy things.

They couldn’t do it.

I had tried to change the unhealthy things.

I couldn’t do it either.

Until you came along.

The most important thing in my whole life became you.

One day, if you are lucky, you will become a dad.

And then you will understand.

Sort of.

Because even though daddies love their kids as much as mommies do, they don’t carry them around with them. Inside of them.

When you were a little baby, my first little baby, I fell more in love with any person than I ever have in my whole entire life.

And sometimes I would put you down on the bed and just look at you and cry.

I loved you so much I didn’t really know how to handle the feelings.

And I felt like no one on the whole planet could possibly love another person as much as I loved you.

And I was certain I would never be able to convey to you just how much I loved you.

It was overwhelming.

I didn’t want to let you go.

I took you everywhere with me.

And I think I may have fucked you up a little bit in the process.

Because you became really attached, and you had a really hard time separating from me.

Truth be told, I think I probably had a harder time separating from you.

When you were about three you began to demonstrate some pretty significant anxiety issues.

They got worse over the next few years.

If you didn’t know where I was at all times, you would have an awful panic attack.

You were terror stricken.

You couldn’t go more than ten or fifteen minutes without calling my name and knowing exactly where I was in the house.

For a full year, you woke up every night around 1 a.m. and came downstairs to make sure I was still in the house.

And as annoying as it was, I’ll be honest.

I liked knowing that there was someone on the planet who needed me.

I know it wasn’t healthy for either of us, but it did feel good to be needed.

And then I realized I needed to change some things.

I needed you to feel safe and comfortable with someone other than me.

Because as a mom, that’s my job.

Little by little, you made progress.

But I always worried about you.

And all moms worry about all their kids.

But there’s something about a mom with her sons. Especially that firstborn son.

I’m not sure exactly what it is or why it happens, but it does. You’re a little bit like kryptonite.

Now, at nine, you’re a different kid.

You’re outgoing. Confident, even.

But in new situations, you still come back to mom.

It’s me who you want to take you to the first practice or the kid’s house that you haven’t been to before.

When you’re nervous, you still want me.

And that still feels good.

Because as much as you feel you need me,

I still need you.

Because remember, you are the one who saved my life.

And none of the other kids in this family can say that.

I was a different person when all the other kids were born; they all started out with a healthier mom.

And that’s because of you.

As your mom, I want you to be happy and healthy and strong and confident.

I see and feel you becoming more and more independent.

The I love you toos have already shortened to the plain old you toos.

And then, a couple weeks ago you were given the lead role in the fourth grade play at your school.

Unbelievable.

You have come a long way.

And then, yesterday, something else happened.

I went to give you a hug. We were just in the kitchen. Not in front of any of your friends or anything.

And you looked at me and you said,

“Mom. Get off of me.”

I knew that time was going to come at some point.

But I thought I still had a couple years to go.

I know it’s a good thing. I’m happy and relieved to see you confident and much less anxious.

But reaching the no hug phase?

Well it really sucks.

You are growing up.

You don’t need me as much as you used to.

But while that makes me a little sad,

okay, a lot sad,

I just want you to know that I am so, so proud of you.

I always have been, and I always will be.

If you are a grown man looking back through your baby book and reading this letter right now, just know, that I love you so much.

More than you will ever know.

You will always be my little baby.

My sidekick.

And my hero.

(And just so you know, if you can find it in yourself to give your old mom a really big hug, just for old time’s sake, well, most moms accept rain checks. At least this one does).

Thank you for making me Number 1!

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