Please don’t die. I mean I get it, it’s open heart surgery and everything like that but really you can’t. Just, no. We have a pact remember? It was a non-verbal agreement made under the sun among the sand and ocean mist. A secret handshake of the heart. On some level I know you get it. The terms and conditions: I agree to stop underestimating you and support your wildest dreams including but not limited to motor cycle racing and trying out for dance team. In return you agree: to live a long, long, long, time. We will go on big adventures together. But you have to keep up your end of the bargain, bugga. So please, remember our deal and don’t die.
Like any good Mother I am suspicious of you. How do you do it, get up everyday smiling and hopeful? How do you start all over everyday as if yesterday never happened? How do you contain that much love in a heart with that many holes? How did I get to be so lucky? And even though I don’t yet have all these answers I’m happy that I have the question. The question is beautiful. The question is 17 pounds and 4 and 1/2 teeth of pure joy.
It’s funny the way teaching works. I try to teach you something and in the end I’m the one sitting quietly in my chair, raising my hand, calling out ‘present.’ Because I am. Present that is. You have taught me to slow down, enjoy the mili seconds, and find wonder in the simple things again. I have a whole new appreciation for fans and the color red, they are marvelous wonders. Thanks Mr. H. I’ll be back Fall quarter.
I have a bit of advice for today’s appointment: no heart jokes. Apparently cardiac surgeon’s don’t like it when you shake hands and begin pumping their hand. I don’t get it. It’s hilarious but let’s not this one time. Best to keep on their good side since its your hinny on the line.
I promise to love you the rest of your life. And since you agreed to live a long, long, long, time that’s saying something. It’ll be me screaming the loudest for you at the race, me with the sign and matching t-shirt at your game. Loving you means believing in you. And I do, hobbsy guy. I really, truly, do. I believe you’ll read books, go to dances and make the winning shot. And I believe you’re gonna make it. Not just because to these doctors it’s “procedure” and “normal” or “routine”. Those words should never have to go in the same sentence as “heart surgery” and “baby” yet this is their reality and now its ours too. But that’s not why. You’re gonna make it because we’re not done yet. We just finished red and there is a whole rainbow to discover. Because we haven’t taken you camping or bowling yet. You’ve never even seen one episode of The Cosby show or been down a water slide. I think I rest my case.
Mama loves you bugga. I am here every step of the way. One little foot in front of the other.