to my sweet littlest big boy,

i love you, little dude.

it's 2:30am, and you're fast asleep beside me. technically it's december 2, but you don't know that yet. to you, it's still the first. which, i suppose, makes you both four and five years old right now... five in reality, four in your reality... i wonder which one is righter.

here it is. your fifth birthday. you weren't supposed to be here. you weren't really expected to make it this far.

but you've made it this far.

i couldn't be more proud.

i couldn't be more grateful.

this truly is something remarkable. for a lot of reasons.

sometimes i wonder how we've gotten this far. i guess i could, or should say it's God, and that would be right, so i don't want to leave Him out here. i want you to know that we couldn't have done any of this without His help and guidance and strength and grace... but i don't know... somehow, chalking it all up to God just kind of makes it all seem so trivial and simple. (or at least, that's how it feels at 2:30am.)

frankly, we've gotten this far with a lot of blood, sweat and tears. literally, blood, sweat and tears. it's true, i wouldn't trade any of this for the world, because it has made all of us who we are today. but, on the other hand...

ugh.

to say this milestone is a gift... i don't know. i almost feel like it whitewashes everything we've been through... sanitizes and sterilizes it all... when in reality, you've worked damn hard to get this far. and so have i. and so have countless docs and surgeons and nurses and other workers who are too numerous to mention. and to call it a gift... i'll be honest, dude, it's not really a gift i'd put on a wish list, if you know what i mean. no offence, because i know it's your life and i know it's the only life you've ever known, and i think that on a different journey you probably wouldn't be this beautiful, radiant light dancing along beside me.

but then i think back over the last five years... and i get tears in my eyes. you've come so far. no one could wrap their heads around the fact that you were eight days old before your PDA closed. eight days old. that just doesn't happen. and yet, there you were.

eight days old, and lying in Cardiac Critical Care at Sick Kids... so far from home, in a place that would become a second home so many times over the next five years.

i remember sitting next to you for hours on end. watching you, reading to you, talking with your nurses, listening to your docs, praying to God, staring at the monitors. but mostly, just watching you. it was really all i could do. i just sat there. right there, with you. holding your hand, crying over you, smiling at you when you opened your eyes, cheering you on in your little victories... the first time they took out your breathing tube, each line they could remove, each time your sats and/or heart rate and/or blood pressure stabilized... i feared for you with every challenge, too, though... each time your pressures increased to dangerous levels, each breath you struggled to take, each time your fever spiked, each time your sats bottomed out, each time you got a new line... i cried for what should have been when they gave you formula through a tube, when i had to put you down because you were destabilizing in my arms, when i wasn't allowed to touch you or speak to you or do anything but watch, because that would stimulate you too much and could have killed you...

oh, my sweet little man...

i'm lying here beside you tonight... this morning... whatever... and you're fast asleep, mouth open, arms up over your head... and i want to tickle your underpits. yes, it's bad, but sometimes i can't help myself. you just have the sweetest giggle i've ever heard. probably because i hear it in contrast to everything else.

probably because, so often lately, i don't hear it in contrast to everything else.

i just hear it. that sweet, musical, light and rambunctious giggle that bounces along with you wherever you go. it's just there. just like it is for any normal, little boy your age.

there's a lot in that giggle. there's victory and strength and determination and courage.

and there's nothing in that giggle. no pain or struggle or fear or sorrow. just light and joy and sheer, total happiness.

i joke with people that you run on batteries. you tell people you're a robot. "isn't that sweet," they say, because they think we're joking. they think you're using your imagination, and i'm exaggerating the way mothers do about their little boys who just go go go. because, really, no little boy runs on batteries. i joke about your slow-motion setting, and that maybe next time, dr c can give you a pacer with a mute button.

but that's just because dear me, child! you're loud!

but you know... i joke that you run on batteries, and you tell people you're a robot. if they only knew...

but then, somehow, the fact that they don't know, the fact that they can look at you and just see a normal boy, a normal, rambunctious, baby-of-the-family, goofball boy...

that's the gift, right there. that's the miracle. that's the milestone.

that you're normal. that you're turning five, and you have no idea how huge that is. that you're turning five, and you're having a birthday party on saturday. that you're turning five, and you're just, "i'm turning five!" and it doesn't knock you on your ass in shock and amazement that you've made it this far.

to you, your fifth birthday is just another reason for people to lavish you with attention and love and kisses, and that you're going to get presents and you got a cheque from Great-Grandma in the mail today...

which would be yesterday by now...

because it's 3:03am right now, and you're fast asleep beside me. technically it's december 2, but you don't know that yet. to you, it's still the first. which, i suppose, makes you both four and five years old right now... five in reality, four in your reality... i wonder which one is righter.

it doesn't matter. you'll be five when you wake up. and you're going to wake up. and that's so miraculous.

because it's so normal.

i love you, dude. from here to one side of the galaxy to the other side and back, and then all over again. or, as you mumbled in your sleep a few minutes ago, "i love you more, to infinity and beyond."

love,
mommy
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo



ps - please, never say "righter." it's not a word. i just made it up because that's how i roll sometimes. i just don't want you to grow up thinking "righter" is a word. because it's not.