Wednesday, February 5, 2014

He's six

Dear Conor, It's cold tonight, 27 degrees with a windchill that feels like 7 degrees. I just put you to bed and we had our usual snuggle and talk about your day. As it's the day before your birthday, I can't help but think of where I was this night six years ago. Time has dulled the memory a bit but I'm pretty sure it wasn't THIS cold. I remember going to bed the night before you were born and thinking to myself, wow, tonight is the night! I'm going to become a mom. And I did. But more importantly, so much more importantly, I became YOUR mom. And what a miracle that is. Out of all the moms in all the world, I was the one chosen to be yours. It seems somehow unfair to the other moms, you know? Luck, blessing, fate, whatever you call it, I feel really damn fortunate to have you as my boy. What what a BOY you have become. You're all tall (only 13 inches shorter than me!) with knobby knees, and long gangly arms and legs that you just can't seem to control. As often as not it seems like your wacky little boy limbs are moving as it not controlled by you. You certainly haven't grown into them yet and it seems like it's got to be years before your coordination will catch up with your incredible, unstoppable growth. Damn, child! You just keep growing! You're a bit of a phyisical marvel in that you're head and shoulders above most of your friends. Nearly everyone who sees you assumes you're about 8 and not about 6. And to be fair, that's a bit of a struggle. You look like an 8 year old but definitely behave like a 6 year old. Life for us lately is all about sports - football, baseball, soccer, tackling, running, jumping (falling, too). You NEVER stop moving. Just now, as I was putting you to bed, your body was flying out of control, all lanky limbs lashing out and you said to me, "Mom! I've got to get my wiggles out"! You seem to possess a neverending capacity for wiggling. There was a day not too long ago when I put my FitBit on your wrist. You love to watch Oregon Football and run around like a little tornado - a constant whirling dirvish of energy and momemtum. The FitBit was meant to record your steps, a quantifiable measure of just how much you move during your beloved football games. 4.75 miles. In one day. In a 10 by 10 area of carpet. In the space of one football game. Damn, child. It's no wonder you're skin and bones. Except for your little bubble butt. God, how I lvoe that little bubble butt! There are so many things I love about you, little man. So many. I love that you're smart - you're reading already and think the most fun thing is when I quiz you with "math stuff". I love that you're athletic. Your restless little body always in motion. Your lack of coordination brought on, I hope, by limbs growing faster than your bosy can keep up with. It could be that your lack of coordination is brought on by your blood relationship with me and your Nana who have a sort of innate ability to fall over. For your sake, I hope it's the former. But what do I love most about you, my sweet little stinker? Your compassion. Your natual ability to know when someone needs you to give a hug, a kiss, a "how was your day, mommy?". The way you sought out Elliott, the new boy at school who didn't know anyone. You're not afraid to hug and kiss or call me Mommy in front of your friends. Oh you're getting there, I can feel it, but you're not there yet and I am grateful every day for that small miracle. Because, for me, there is almost nothing better than the feeling of your long, bony arms wrapping around my neck and the way you say, "Mommy, I MISSED you today." God, how did I get so lucky? Conor, there have been days when I've felt like being a mom is just too much. Too hard, too much respomsibility, too much pressure, too high a chance of complete and utter failure. It's a big responsibility, this being a charge of a whole other human being. But every night, when I sneak into your room to kiss you goodnight and whisper I love you in your ear, I'm reminded how I wouldn't choose anything else. Of all the things I've done in my life, of all the things I have left to do, there is nothing, NOTHING, more wonderful, more profoundly satisfying than being your mama. You are my life, my little love, my happiness and my frustration. You are the best thing I've ever done. And so tonight, nearly six years after you were born it's time I say thank you. Thank you for making me a mom, thank you for making me your mom. Thank you. For being you. My perfect, giant, tiny, annoying, compassionate, perfect little man. I love you to the moon and around the stars and under the ocean and right back to your bed.