A Letter to My Son

Your nighttime routine is done.

You’ve had “Bath-Time with Daddy”—the mere mention cracks a smile on your face—you’ve been dressed and swaddled—the screams of being taken from your cozy bath echo through the house—you’ve finished your bedtime bottle—leaving a few dregs at the bottom because you always fall asleep right at the end—and Daddy has rocked you for ten minutes, just to be sure you’re sound asleep. He slowly stands and takes the three steps to your crib and places you gently on the Dock-A-Tot, wrapped in my t-shirt. You don’t stir, so Daddy knows it is safe to leave your room. It is then that I sneak inside to watch you—something that I’ve tried not to do over the last few weeks. This is your time with Daddy—it always has been, probably always will be. But tonight is different.

Tonight is like the Christmas Eve of my childhood.

Fear and anticipation form a knot in my stomach, the result of which is restlessness. I toss and turn for hours, sleep will not come, as my mind whirls with questions of what the next day will hold: will daylight bring disappointment, have I done everything I could to make sure tomorrow will be everything I want it to be, will I want to just crawl back into bed and pretend today is doesn’t exist. My eyes are glued to the clock, watching as the minutes and hours labor on. Sleep is not my friend—on this night, more than any other. The unknown is a torture.

Yes, tonight is like Christmas Eve, but in the worst possible ways.

Fore tonight is the last night of my maternity leave, and tomorrow I return to the 9-to-5 world of dutiful employment. My days will consist of spreadsheets, “putting out fires”, office politics, and conference calls. Tomorrow, I will leave your side for the first time in 12 weeks, so I can help provide a future for you—the bane of all working moms once their maternity leave has ended. Tomorrow, I will feed you your first (because you’ve grown accustomed to three) breakfast, then drive you to Marmie and Poppy’s. There you will stay for 9 1/2 hours, until my work day is done and I hurry to pick you up. During the workweek, your first breakfast will be the most one-on-one time for the foreseeable future—a few hours before bed and a picture here and there will be the only other contact during the day. Every milestone, every achievement will not be mine to witness, but relayed by whoever is taking care of you that day. I will become a spectator to your childhood, while another keeps up with your day-to-day.

A bit melodramatic? Yes, I’d agree, but by now I hope you realize I have a flare for the drama, especially when my emotions are getting to me.

Truthfully, I didn’t think I’d find myself here tonight, feeling excited and full of dread at the same time.

In years past, I’ve been the shoulder your aunties have cried on when this night was approaching. “I wish I could freeze time. It all went too fast,” they’d cry, clutching their babies like they were about to be ripped from their arms. “It’ll get easier. Take it one day at a time,” was the advice I’d always offer. But what experience did I have to speak those words of encouragement? Absolutely none, but it felt like the only appropriate thing to say. Maternity leave in this country is typically way too short—especially if you compare it to countries like your father’s. For me, I thought I’d be desperate to get back to work. Only once in my adult life have I had an extended amount of time away from the working world, and I’ve never been good at not having a structured routine. I like working, and more so I like my job. In the weeks leading up to your birth, I had a very hard time grasping the leave of absence. “I need TV shows to binge. I’m going to be bored out of my mind,” I told one of my co-workers (naturally this was all before the pandemic).

But now, I get it.

At the end of 12 weeks, the thought of going back to work turns my stomach. But not because I’m afraid of working again—I’m looking forward to using my brain and not being a literal cow for hours on end. No, what turns my stomach is the thought of not having those special, little moments with you everyday. Like when I pull you into our bed each morning and you wake up, stretching your arms and legs like a cat then opening your big, blue eyes to look right at me. A smile comes very soon after, and you click your tongue on the roof of your mouth, telling me you’re hungry and I better get to feeding you. Or the way you scratch my sides as I’m nursing you—which usually leaves a mark if we haven’t cut your nails in a few days. Our special morning rituals: I sit you in your pillow seat on the kitchen table as I make myself coffee and breakfast, you watch as I scurry around the kitchen, kicking your legs like your pedaling a bicycle and flail your arms around like a wild dance, you coo and talk gibberish until Daddy comes up from his office to say hello, and we wait for Poppy to FaceTime us (which he always does around 9:30). Then we get ready for our daily walk, mapping out our new neighborhood and looking for houses with little kids who I hope will one day be your playmates.

Everyday has been basically the same. Mundane and uneventful, but I will cherish these days all my life. Because I know I will never have them again; the time to devote solely to you and no one else. These 12 weeks have been challenging, frustrating, and down right exhausting but they’ve been the best of my life. I count the sleepless nights and meltdowns—yours and mine—on equal footing to all the rewarding milestones—the smiles, thumb-sucking, and holding your head up to name a few. All of it will be ingrained in my memory, and get me through the tough days to follow. But most of all, I am thankful we got this time, just the three of us—like so many told me I would. This year has tested your father and I in ways we never could’ve imagined, but we learned and stood together. Your father was home with me everyday of the last twelve weeks—a Covid-19 blessing, of which I will be eternally grateful. With trial and error, we became parents together and a true team—if one us crumbled, the other swooped in to take over. You will hear stories of the awful year you were born, but this time together solidified our bond and made me love your father ten times over.

Now, time is short and the seconds til I leave your side are inching closer and closer.

Deep down, I know you’ll be okay; that I’ll be okay. You’ll be in great hands, and our time together—short though it may be—will be all the more sweet. Going back to work will set a good example in your eyes—just as it did for me with my mother. It will exemplify to you the strength of women, who are able to juggle both full time and family life. My strength tomorrow—and the days after—will paint the picture of a modern woman; a woman I hope you will one day respect in the workplace.

But tonight, I will cuddle you a little longer and hold your teeny hand until I see you drift off to sleep. And remember, I will always be here, holding your hand as you dream.

Love, Mommy