Wow. Eight years. As an adult now, I know eight years is merely a blip on the radar screen. But when I look at you, it seems like too many years. Has it really been that long since I first saw your squished in little face?
I remember examining you on the night after you were born. I sat alone for a moment in the hospital room, and I unwrapped you from the swaddle that held you tight so I could look at you. Your legs. Your feet and toes. Your little hands. I remember looking at your left hand and thinking, "This is the same finger you will wear your wedding band on one day." My how that little finger has grown - still not up to its full potential, but it's multiplied itself ten times over in these eight years. It's amazing, really, how it all happens - how the human body is programmed to form and continue growing. How each individual begins life virtually the same but end up so completely different. You are no exception, my dear David.
I was terrified of you when you were born. What had I gotten myself into? Could I really pull this whole mama thing off? I still think these thoughts from time to time now some eight years into it. But when I look at you and see how you are so basically innocent and pure, I know that I am doing on okay job. But it helps that you have a heart so big and a zeal for life I have never known before. You certainly make my job look easy.
Oh how I've enjoyed watching you grow from that tiny infant into a little man. You are the most balanced, coordinated little thing I have ever seen. It began at an early age when you learned to walk at nine months and swung your first golf club at twelve months. You've just always been able to do whatever you wanted to do if you put your mind to it. I have had the pleasure of watching you learn to walk, to read, to throw a baseball, and to use a vacuum cleaner.
In so many ways you are just like your mama - cautious, insecure, warm. And then in other ways you are much like your daddy - drawing people into your circle, coordinated, charming. The only thing I hate you didn't get from your daddy is confidence. It's something he has plenty of, and I don't have enough of, so you got completely cheated out of that attribute. But I am working on you because I don't want you to be scared of criticism or judgement - I want you to learn to push through it all and work harder. I want you to be better than me. No matter what, just be better than me. I mean, not that your mama is all that bad or anything, but I often wonder who I would be if I had only had a little confidence and courage earlier in life. But if I had, I might not have had the pleasure of knowing you, my David.
I often wonder what you will be when you grow up. And, honestly, I have no idea. When I open that part of my mind and try to look ahead, I can't picture you as being anything but my little boy. But no matter what direction you take in life, I want you to be a man of tremendous integrity. I want you to be kind and respectful. And really, if in twenty years I can look at you and see those attributes, it won't matter at all if you sit at a desk or cut open the human skull to perform delicate surgery, I'll be honored to call you my son.
I'm sorry I haven't been the best role model for you in these past eight years. I have made a ton of mistakes while parenting you. I have made even more mistakes in other areas of my life. You have heard me yell and seen me lose my temper. I haven't always been the picture of the ideal mother and wife. But I know that you have given me a reason to try harder, and I will continue every day trying harder and harder to be all that you (and your sister) deserve. I hope you know how much I love you. I hope that one day you will look at your own child and understand it in your soul.
I am so grateful to God for giving you to me and your daddy. And I look forward to watching you grow more and more each day.
I love you, David.
~ Your Crazy Mama