Dear Axton,
I feel like it was only just last month that I was sitting down to write your three-year-old letter. Like it was only just a month ago that I was thinking the same thoughts I am today: “How has it really been that long? Where has the time gone? Where is my baby – my first baby? the one who made me a mother?”
And the beautiful thing is, you’re right in front of me. You always are, and you always have been.
I could make some joke here about how you being right in front of me ALL. the. time. can drive me nuts or make me scream for a break, but I know that’s far from the truth, far from what my heart is actually saying. Because that voice? that voice is just life, getting in the way. It’s just selfishness. It’s a lie. And I want more than that for you. What I want for you to know instead is this: You being right in front of me, all the time, is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s the greatest gift God has ever allowed me to hold in my fragile little heart, and your hand is the greatest I’ve ever grasped. Your life is the greatest breath to fill my lungs.
I know one day you won’t always be right there in front of me. One day, you’ll be far from my sight, far from my reach and influence, and I can only hope you’ll hear whispers of my love in your ear at just the right times.
When you’re at school and the class bully is picking on someone else, I hope you hear me whispering,
Be kind.
Or, perhaps the bully is picking on you. I hope you hear me whispering,
Show love anyway.
When you’re graduating from high school and you’re trying to decide what to do with your life, I hope you hear a whisper,
Serve God first, and all else will fall into place.
When you’re falling in love, and the world is spinning with her face – only her face! – maybe you’ll hear a whisper (and maybe you won’t)
Slow down and enjoy it.
When you’re married and things get hard – and they will, for the world won’t always spin with just her face – I hope you hear me whispering,
Come back – and love deeper, harder, hold on tighter.
When you don’t know where to turn, or can’t find answers to questions, I hope you remember me singing so many times,
I am a Child of God.
When it’s your turn to be a dad, and you hold your baby in your arms late at night, I hope you whisper to yourself,
I understand now.
But for now, I do not forget – yes, even in the thick of life, I must not forget – that now is the only time, the only few precious years that I do have you with me all the time. I treasure it. I cherish it. I kiss the top of your golden little head, and I tell myself, “I must do better.”
I must chase you more often, tumble into the grass in fits of laughter.
I must snuggle you longer, feel your chest rise and fall beneath me.
I must ask you more questions, dig into your thoughts while they’re still so open to me.
I must fuel your creativity, hand you a pen, paint, scissors, glue.
I must listen more intently, my eyes locked on yours instead of wandering to the side….or down to my phone.
I must do better, my son.
In the morning, you won’t know the difference. We’ll cheer and celebrate and we’ll open presents, but you’ll feel the same. You’ll feel like Axton. You won’t know the difference — but I will. I’ll be reminded of it every time I write your birthday down on a form, or someone asks you and watches as you raise your four little fingers up. I’ll be reminded of it as your conversation matures, your understanding advances, your coordination improves. I’ll rejoice in your growth and advancements, and I’ll love being a part of it in the intimate way you allow me right now. But in the back of my mind, I’ll be secretly asking,
“But where did my baby go?”
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