OverThought: A Love Letter, A Birthday Letter

The lovely monthly letters written by Catwoman and Dooce to their children are some of my favourite blog-fare to read. I (fortunately? unfortunately?) don't have my own children, but I would like to write something to a little boy I love with my whole heart, the closest thing in my life to my own baby; to my little brother.

He (and his sister) and I are definitely not a traditional sibling set. He is the son of two women; my father is his sperm donor, his "bio-dad". I helped raise him and take care of him and forged an incredible, unique bond. We weren't even raised in the same family, or even the same part of the city, but for the last eight years he has moved in and taken up a piece of my brain and a half of my heart, and a great deal of my laughter.

In honour of a birthday that still blows my mind...
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My Dear (Not-So Baby) W.,

On the day you were born, my dad spend the whole day with the phone never more than a few inches from his hand. Up and down the hallway he went, painting with coiled nervous energy, and with every shuffle of his feet, there went the phone, inching down the hall. With every burst of ringing my stomach decided to basically make out with my tonsils, but every time it was someone else, someone boring, someone tying up the line while I waited for you. When we finally dragged ourselves to bed, the phone was still silent.

In the morning, my dad woke me up with the biggest smile, and told me your name. I almost fell out of bed with excitement.

Of course, he also told me what your mother had been through, but since this is your letter, not hers, that can come later, ok? Let's just say you weren't as excited by the possiblilty of coming out to meet me as I was to have you come out (Which would have been hard to beat... I all but crawled up there myself to get to see you sooner.)

Two weeks later, when the concept of car travel was slightly less daunting for your mom than advanced organic chemistry or miniature pig breeding, I met you, and I held you... and I was like the Grinch. I'm pretty sure my heart grew three sizes. Either that or gained weight like my stomach at a brunch buffet. In any case, the swelling, heavy, bursting joy that broke through my ribs and up my throat was as solid and real as your solid, slightly damp body in my arms.
My heart had already gotten a hefty bursting from your sister, and I still don't know how you did it so well, how you flooded me so completely. But you did.

I'm pretty sure they thought I was going to kidnap you, because once I had you next to me I didn't let you down for one second (well, I did let the others hold you for a minute. But just a minute. And the process of handing you over made me feel like I was sawing it off and passing it to them with you). You puckered up your little red face and cried if I sat down, so I walked you and walked you, singing and whispering and staring as you stared back, for two whole hours. I couldn't figure out whether it felt like minutes or hundreds of years. When you left to go home, my arms were rubbery and tingling from the new strain, but they were cold without your big sweaty head and 10-lb body.

I was so in love.

As you grew, you made your mom your whole world. No one else should hold you, or comfort you, or reach out for you. If we did, we got a patented disapproving stare and the threat of screaming. I began to be afraid that you wouldn't love me, or that you would forget me, and that I would forget what it had felt like when I held you. At the same time, you did so many cool things: you walked at 9 months (!), talked to yourself constantly, could accurately hum along to almost any song (especially ABBA), and had the most full-body-melting smile I had ever seen.

Then one day, the summer you turned one and I came to babysit for a week, everything changed. Suddenly you were reaching out for ME, whining when I went away, and glued to my hip like your butt was made for it. I carried you everywhere, and we talked and talked and pointed at everything that went 'vrrrOOM', especially public transit ("Bup! Bup!" was the favourite). You were so funny and messy, like the one time you pooed a trail down the carpet and thought it was the most hysterical thing you'd ever seen. But sometimes you were so serious, and thoughtful. The way you looked at me, with your nose pressed to mine and your hazel eyes the biggest thing I'd ever seen, and you'd just touch my cheek, or wrap your fingers in my hair... and I would feel like the most beautiful girl on the planet.

You'll never know how much I needed that feeling. The love and adoration you and your sister lavished on me, the way I could be only just me and you thought that was better than good... for those first years of your life, there was nowhere I could be that I liked myself at all, except for being with you two. Even just playing on the floor, looking out for tow trucks ("Do duck!"), eating your half-chewed chicken fingers, or pretending that I was sitting at the kids' table with you out of obligation rather than preference, I was at my absolute happiest.

When we walked down the street, just the two of us, M. and B. far ahead and running while we took our time and noticed and talked, strangers used to give me the dirtiest looks. I eventually realized that they thought I was your mom, and a ridiculously young teen mom at that. It didn't even occur to me to be offended; I couldn't think of a much better compliment.

So thank you, W., for being the funniest, sillest, handsomest and kindest boy I know. Thank you for letting me be in the club of people you loved. Thank you for always saying my name, even though it was hard for you (and I loved every version along the way). Thank you for thinking I was prettier in my glasses than my contacts; it was the one factor which almost made me change my mind. Thank you for playing "Bury Jordan" and inviting me to your birthday parties, even now that you're such a big man (comparatively).

And you are such a big guy! I can't even get my head around it. So do me a favour: stay kind, stay happy, stay thoughtful, and I know you'll keep on getting just smarter and smarter until you start correcting my thesis papers in the sixth grade. You're not that far off.