May 19, 2012
Dearest Boy,
Eleven years ago this night you were on the brink of being born. I didn’t know my missing piece was about to be placed into the wedge nothing else could fill. I didn’t even know you existed. I certainly didn’t know you were about to be mine. I get weepy just typing this note to you. You cannot know how much love was sewn into your life’s garment. It’s baffling, really. It took almost 4 years of thinking I knew exactly how God was going to bring my children to me–and failing utterly–to bring me to a quiet, humble place where I could grow into your mom. Without those years, without the emptiness, without my casting around in desperation, I would not have been ready. I wasn’t ready before you. I didn’t know this.
God knew.
Four years of powerful aching was pacified by a wriggling 7 pound baby with big red lips and a deep, beautiful dimple.
Four years of pain now buried under 11 years of the greatest joy your dad and I have ever known.
You were the perfect baby for us–hand-picked by your Creator.
You were perfect.
You are perfect.
Perfect.
Happy birthday, sweet son.
