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Yesterday was my son's first birthday, and our family and friends played, sang and danced with him to celebrate. I was so thankful for the day, words often failed me. My sister-in-law's gift was an activity called "Message in Bottle." Guests were invited to write a letter to either Andrew or their own children to be read upon their 18th birthday. It seems like an unimaginable milestone, but a year ago, this one did too.
I was surprised that I didn't immediately know Andrew when he was born. I assumed that nine months of comingled bodily fluids and nonstop kicking would have created an unshakeable psychic bond, but he arrived in the world a mysterious, serenely beautiful stranger. I didn't instinctively know what to do with him, I realized this week as we looked back on video footage of my clumsy first foray into the world of sponge baths. It took months to get to know him, and only now that I look back on his baby pictures can I retroactively superimpose what I know now to be his joyful essence as a human being. Over the next few months, I got to know his likes and dislikes, what wakes him up and when he needs to sleep, when he needs me and when I can slip away for a shower. But it wasn't instant, like in the movies. When we checked out of the hospital, the nurse referred to me as the my son's mother, and I wondered how I could possibly step into the role that would define my sons' life forever. Would I be able to meet his needs? Would he feel connected to our family? Would he know how much he is loved? Was I really someone's mother?
Fast-forward one year, and Andrew's birthday guests were writing letters destined for another seemingly unimaginable milestone. Just as this one did, it will probably come sooner than we expect. They penned their messages, scooped in some seashells and sand along with the parchment, and sealed the bottles for posterity. After the dust cleared that night, I sat down with my own piece of parchment and set to work. As I wrote draft after draft, I found myself wanting to express a desire for him to remain close to the family fold without selfishly limiting his first steps out into the world. On the cusp of his high school graduation, will he want to stay connected to us? How will our family remain strong and connected while supporting his budding independence? Will he know how much he is loved? Will he want to stay close to our family even in the face of looming changes? Andrew will, God-willing, be a few months away from leaving for college when he reads this message. Who will be the young man on the receiving end of these words?
In the end, I wrote this:
Dear Andrew,
I hope this finds you a happy, thoughtful and kind young man with a twinkle in your eye. I can already tell you're the kind of person with whom I'll enjoy great conversations and wonderful laughter. I can't wait until you start talking and you can tell me what you're thinking and feeling.
Today, you are a vibrantly happy 1-year-old who loves his teddy bears, tries new things with great gusto, and says "hi" vivaciously to everyone you meet. You possess an amazing ability to make people happy. Having you as my son has brightened my life, softened my heart, and filled my soul with gratitude. I love being your mom.
You held my hands so tightly these past few weeks as you learned to walk. Just before your party today, you took your first step. I hope that as you grow, I can let go of your hand gracefully as you share your sunshine with the world, and that you can forgive me gracefully when I hold on longer than you may wish me to. I love you, and I hope our relationship grows with every milestone.
Most of all, I hope you know you are part of a family who loves you exactly as you are. We will always be there for you, even when you make a mistake.
Loving you has given me more joy than I ever dreamed possible. I hope that you, in turn, will cultivate and show
