Dear Son,

I didn't get to see you when you were born and it was weeks before I could hold you. I didn't feel like a mom. One moment, I had your lovely, little body inside me, then, by the swift hand of a surgeon, my body was empty.

You were gone. My phone didn't have reception, nor is it one of those nifty phones that have internet. And why can't anyone update me about my baby? I was sedated for three days during recovery, and all I knew was that I was empty. It was such a daze that even the statement that I'd just had a baby didn't even feel correct. When you have a baby, shouldn't you literally be in possession of said baby?!?!

I spent three days essentially alone in my hospital while your daddy spent his days with you at your hospital. I can't say it enough; I didn't feel like a mom. It just felt like a magic trick.... *Now you're pregnant and NOW YOU'RE NOT!" And now let's all make the baby disappear!! * Strangest feeling ever, and I'm surprised I could even find words to remotely describe it.

It took awhile for motherhood mode to kick in, I admit that, but ever since you finally became mine, I don't ever want to let you go.

Son, you are my best friend. I love you more than bears love honey (and we all know that's an awful lot). I love that you've picked a favorite blankey and a favorite toy, and that even though you can't make a sound, I hear what you're saying. I know when you're cooing at the ladies or laughing at the silly faces of bearded men (because you're really just not used to seeing men besides Daddy.) I love how we fall asleep together and you'll occasionally lift your head out of the blanket you're suckling to look at me, almost as if you need to reassure yourself about who's cuddling you. I love saying, "Yes baby, it's still Momma", then you'll give a bashful smile and bury yourself back to your blankey and into slumber. I love it when the nurses consult me about how to handle a specific situation, and I can confidently tell them that you have 3-5 meltdowns per day, and when you start having your dramatic fits of wheezing, they should expect about 5-8 coughs. I know you. And you came from me. And that is just miraculous. You are truly the love of my life.

And now tomorrow I have to face a mother's worst fear. You are having a procedure done that requires you to go under anesthesia. I know you will survive, life will go on, and I trust your doctors. But I can't imagine how I'm going to hold back from crying my eyes out so I can keep it together long enough to get through the formalities of paperwork. It used to be so much easier because I didn't know you. You were just a baby that someone said had been cut out of my tummy, and then drugged me for days. Now I'm amazed (and mildly embarassed) about how easy it used to be to just walk away when you had a procedure. This time, I've asked every hospital friend I have about who can meet me where and when because I need a distraction. Can someone just sedate me too?!

Now I have to kiss you goodbye and tell you that I love you without crying. Tomorrow will be very hard, but this procedure has to be done. You are much stronger than me, Kiddo, and we are both very lucky to have your daddy be strong enough for all of us.

I love you Son.