Letters to my sons: I like you, little man

Dearest S,

My firstborn baby boy, it's hard to believe that you're already FOUR - it seems like only yesterday that you were born, in the middle of that cold January night,  with your cord wrapped twice around your neck, covered in meconium, and bellowing for all to hear.  When they laid you, slippery and wet, on my chest, I thought my heart would escape from my breast even as my smile threatened to split my face.  We took pictures of you sleeping, videos of you wiggling, and wrote each one of those timeless moments on our sleepless hearts - because we were so enamored with you.  From the first moment, we've liked you a lot.  And that hasn't changed, as we've gotten to know you more and more.

As our oldest son, you've been our guinea pig for a lot of learning.  You may not know this yet, but even as you're learning how to be a kid and a decent human being, we're learning alongside you, how to be good parents.  Some days we do pretty well - it feels natural, even.  Others, we throw up our hands in exasperation, disagree with one another, and can't find our footing in this parenting gig.  Parenting is not nearly as clean-cut as I knew-it-all to be, before we had you and your siblings.

This season that we're in right now - man, it's a stretching one.  Two was a breeze with you, but four...  man, four is full of all kinds of fun.  You have so many thoughts and opinions and aaaaaaallllll the big feelings and assertions and RIGHT NOWs as you're learning how to navigate your place in this world.  Most days the biggest grace (and hardest discipline) I have to give you is to remind you that the world does not revolve around you.  

Sometimes you understand that well beyond your years... and sometimes you respond by kicking and screaming and stomping and lying prostrate on the floor (sidewalk, steps, elevator - really wherever we are).  And sometimes I respond well, and sometimes I don't know what to do, or I'm snappy or careless with your tender little heart, or my frustration amps things up rather than brings us back to sanity.  Four has all the big feels, and many tears, for you and for me.

Even on good days, we have to do a lot of boundary setting and "no" saying these days.  I know you don't understand it yet, but we're setting those boundaries now to help you learn how to interact with the world.  How to be kind.  How to be respectful.  Responsible.  Wise.  Even woke, hopefully.  Discipline, or setting good boundaries, is a necessary part of parenting, and ultimately brings greater freedom and joy.  But right now, I know those boundaries often times just feel like we want to limit your fun.  Or worse, limit you.  Or worst still, that we just don't like you.

And little man, that's what hurts my heart the most.  Scares me the most.  That I might not show you that I enjoy you.  That you might not know my joy in you.  Or, more vulnerably, that I will become so consumed with "parenting well" that I will lose sight of you and not make the space to just delight in you.   Truth be told, sometimes I do.  And that causes deep shame and guilt in me.  While I want to "parent you well" - and sometimes that means that you won't like me - I never want to lose sight of you, and the simple delight we had have in you since the very beginning.

A couple days ago, we had had a particularly rocky day.  All the feels.  All the floor stomping.  All the tears.  All the not liking each other very much, as we did the messy and hard work of boundary setting and (re)learning that the world doesn't revolve around either of us.

Your daddy came home early and truth be told, all I wanted to do was have 10 minutes to myself, outside, moving.  But daddy *had* to suggest that maybe you could go with me.  If I'm really honest, I have to admit that I tried to escape before you could veeeeerrry slowly get your shoes and coat on.  But, your siblings ran interference and I didn't make it.  And so off we went, you and I.

You, chattering a million miles an hour, unfettered by your siblings or time limitations, as we meandered towards the grocery store.  Me, unplugged and breathing more freely under the open sky.  You, silly and goofy.  Me, actually laughing, rather than scolding.  You, slipping your little hand into mine and pulling me along.  Me, mindful of the sweetness of this season and stage you're in.  Mindful of how quickly you are growing up and how important these moments are.

Our shadows lengthening ahead of us as we walked home, hand in hand, we talked about kindness - practical, tangible - how can we show kindness to our friends.  And you knew.  You know.  Even though you don't always practice it, I didn't have to feed you the answers.  You knew.  And you were teaching me too, reminding me again, of what unfettered, exuberant kindness means.  Of all the ways that I excuse myself from walking out that kindness every day, to my friends, and to you.

Tears filled my eyes as you giggled and skipped, trying to catch your shadow.  "Mom, my shadow is as long as yours!"  "Not yet buddy, but you're gaining on me." "Hey, mom, what's a shadow?"

Man, kiddo, I really like you.  I am so proud of the little man that you are, even as I pray for and long for and discipline with hope for the big kid you're becoming.   S, I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love you.  How much you delight me.  How my heart bursts every night when you tell me that you love me and you're proud of me.

Forgive me for the times when I don't see you.  For the times when I lose sight of you, in the name of good parenting.  For the times when I miss out on the opportunity to skip in the sunshine with you, on a warm February day.

As we neared home, you slipped your hand into mine again, "I love you, Mom." "I love you too buddy.  I'm so glad we got to walk together today." We're figuring this out together, kiddo, one grace filled day at a time.

You've got all my love, kiddo.  And all my like.  And the rest of my big ol' soppy mess too.

Love,
Mommy