One year ago today, I hadn't met you yet.
I knew you, of course. I knew the way your kicks felt. You knew the way my heartbeat sounded. I knew the hopes and dreams I held for you for when you emerged into the world, though you knew nothing but the warmth and love and safety of my womb.
I never hid the fact that I was worried about being the mother of a son. Daughters, well, I knew a thing or two about daughters. Having worked with girls, having had sisters, being a woman myself, it seemed like there was a default setting I could flip in my brain that would instinctively tell me how to be the mother of daughters. But a son? What on Earth would I do with a son?
One year ago, I was afraid. I was terrified I would never be able to divide my heart into parts that could love you and her equally. I was afraid that I would fail you as a mother, not understanding how to relate to a son. I was concerned that the fears that plagued my pregnancy would continue into your first year and beyond.
But you know that whole cliche about how your heart doesn't split in half to love another child, but grows twice as big to accommodate twice as much love? It's actually true. Though my midsection is much smaller than it was on this evening last year, my heart is most certainly twice the size that it was.
It turns out, there's something to the fabled love between a mother and her son. Those shortcomings I may have? He doesn't see them. He just sees the love that I have for him, the arms that reach out to hold him, the embrace I envelope him in as I nurse him. And while I am far from perfect, he doesn't seem to notice.
I cannot believe that a year ago I had yet to see your face, because every day since then, it's been the last face I've seen before I've fallen asleep, and the first face I've seen in the morning. Most of the time, I feel that I know your face better than I know my own.
Happy birthday's eve, baby boy. I can't wait to wake up to your smiling face tomorrow morning and celebrate your first birthday with you!