Dear Father of My Son

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To the Father of My Son,

I know he’s hard to handle right now. You can barely deal with him long enough for me to wash my hair.

“He hates me,” was your response as he screamed at you. “He hates me.”

And yes, he’s better for me because I have boobs. Thank the heavens for boobs. He would be impossible otherwise.

But “better” doesn’t mean he’s easy for me. Nothing in the whole wide world is easy about this job.

If I could paint a picture, it would show me with our child straddling my back while I dog paddled into a hurricane. Because honestly, that’s how I feel some days. Like I’m dog paddling into a hurricane with a kid on my back.

I spend my entire day teaching him rhymes, tickling his tummy, teaching him to sleep, helping him eat, making sure his diaper is clean and dry, trying to keep the spit-up to a minimum, worrying about his mouth, worrying about that stuffy nose, worrying about the dogs, worrying about anyone and everyone who looks at him, trying to keep the house as clean as possible, forcing myself to let him cry just long enough for me to scarf down some semblance of lunch or use the bathroom.

Then I find myself wondering if he’ll recognize everything that I’m doing when he’s an adult, wondering if his girlfriend will have a clue or if his wife will know, knowing she won’t. Knowing I’ll lose him to her.

This. Right now. This is truly all I have.

I spend my time snuggling him. Oh the snuggles. The sweet, sweet snuggles. And I give him every piece of me because babies don’t keep.

They grow up. They won’t be like this forever. Or for long. And when he’s an adult I’ll miss his baby feet. I’ll laugh at the way he hated naps. I’ll tell him about how he rolled over when he was two weeks old and scared me to death. Or about that time he spit-up all in my hair and I was so exhausted that I wiped it out with a damp cloth and didn’t find a moment to wash my hair until two days later.

I’ll lose him to you, too. He won’t want his momma when Daddy teaches him to cast a line. He won’t want his momma when his daddy gives him a rifle for Christmas and takes him out that evening to learn how to use it. He won’t want his momma during the following October, November, December, and January. Or during the rest of the year when it’s this season or that.

Well, at least not like he wants me now.

I’ll lose him to you when you take him to the lake. I’ll lose him to you when you teach him to shave. I’ll lose him to you when you tell him how to treat a woman on his first date. I’ll lose him to you when you talk about manly things in the truck.

Love, I’ll lose him to you, first. Then we’ll both lose him to his wife.

It’ll happen slowly, then all at once. You’ll see.

We have right now to teach him to love. That’s it.

He has to love us the way he’ll love that woman someday. That woman who will no doubt be the luckiest girl in the world, because he has two parents who taught him in the best way. By loving one another so very deeply.

So be patient with us, Love. You’ll have the opportunity to steal him away soon enough. He doesn’t hate you. I promise.

Right now he’s Momma’s baby. But tomorrow he’ll be Daddy’s son.

With love,

Your Wife

If you enjoyed this post, check out A Letter to my Unborn Son.

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