Inside is a letter to my firstborn son, the future Kindergartner. This is a sponsored post written by me on behalf of PF Flyers. All opinions are 100% mine.
Dear Firstborn son…
You will start Kindergarten next week and I am equal parts excited for you and sad for myself.
It will be the first time you’re away from us all day every day and I am going to miss you something fierce.
I remember when you were born just over 5 years ago. It was an interesting time, far away from family. We were in Australia with a midwife attending. A midwife I’d never met. You came just one year after your big sister and she was with us, in the hospital, as we walked the halls waiting for you.
I was determined to have you naturally and warned my husband to not touch me or say nice things because it was distracting. We walked the halls and I drank a Diet Coke in the hospital cafeteria while I was 3 or 4 centimeters. I would eat a bite of my ciabatta sandwich and take a sip of Coke then have a contraction. Rinse and repeat.
It was all a bit melodramatic.
But by now you know that’s par for the course with me. Go big or go home, as they say. I told the midwife to not give me drugs unless I screamed for drugs. And – even then – to not give me drugs if I was close enough. I remember lying there in a black dress with blue stripes. In that labor daze. I was excited to bring a boy into our family.
- pinpoint an issue
- draw out how it’s affecting you
- label what you don’t like about it
- determine areas of responsibility
- figure out how it’s showing up
- say what you’d rather happen
- brainstorm solutions
I knew you were a boy early on. I knew it in my heart. And I knew what your name would be as well.
I changed into a comfortable night gown when the time got nearer. In that hospital outside Sydney, we didn’t have to wear a hospital gown during delivery. I remember feeling peace and calm for those few hours. It didn’t make sense because having babies is hard flipping work. But surprisingly, you were my easiest labor and delivery out of the 5.
You’ve never been hard work.
I reached Go Time without much fuss. But one thing I didn’t know was that you’d be born special. That less than 1 in 80,000 babies are born how you were. This, now that I know you, doesn’t surprise me one bit. My mother-in-law (a former midwife) said if you’d been born centuries ago there would be superstition around you. Predictions of greatness.
You were a 10 pound baby born in the caul.
I felt like a superhero woman after that, I must admit. A healthy 10 pound baby boy. You were sleepy from the beginning and you’re still sleepy. You still nap most days and sleep all night.
I want to tell the Kindergarten teacher that you still take naps. And I want to tell her that you are quite whiny when you’re tired. But I probably won’t tell her this because you may surprise us all. You often do.
I want to tell her to be gentle with you because you are a really sweet boy. So sweet that harsh tones and words cut you. I’m kinda worried you’re going to get pulvarized by mean kids, but maybe you’ll be able to hold your own.
I remember one day when you were 3 years old, shortly after I gave birth to one of your brothers, you were walking behind me out to the pool.
I couldn’t disagree really, but said, “Baby, we don’t tell people that because it’s mean. It will hurt their feelings.”
“Ohhhh,” you said in your little voice, “then I’ll only tell MONSTERS they have big bottoms!”
I know you’ll do fine in Kindergarten. That said, you do go from 13 to 15 when counting, but skipping 14 can’t be an indicator of life success, can it? You like knowing how things work and truly do love to learn. Earlier this year when daddy was gone most nights and Nana helped me do the bedtime routine… you always wanted to “talk about the world.”
What are other countries like?
How are stars in the sky?
Where do lions live?
Why does daddy have hair on his chest? Did it fall off his head?
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I am so proud of you, son.
As you go off to school and are gone most of the day, I’ll miss you. But I know you’ll be okay. You’ll be learning, growing up, and coming more into your own. You’ll come home from school and I’ll ask you a million questions and you’ll give one word answers. And then, at bedtime, you’ll really open up.
Because that’s when you like to have heart to hearts.
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In a month or two I’ll look at you and think… man, he’s grown up. And I’ll smile because you while you are getting bigger, you are still my baby. And I’m lucky you’re mine.
Have a good year, son,