I should start this post by explaining that I just finished reading the most brilliant book, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. For those that haven't read it, it's all about young love and teenagers that die too soon and broken-hearted parents who lose their lovestruck kids to cancer. And there's some great poetry thrown in too, just for good measure. Which sounds kinda sad and sucky. Except its not because the characters are totally kick-ass and smart and sarky. Kinda like Juno, but more hugable. Basically the kind of kids I dream my son will be one day. Naturally I sobbed my eyeballs clean out of their sockets. But the cool type of sobbing, the right kind. The kind that reminds you you're alive. Which sometimes you forget when you've had 12 hours sleep in the past week and meetings with the preschool and a business to run and a tantrumming toddler and visitors staying back-to-back for 3 months.
And then this morning I got the most brain piercing headache ever. The kind where you pray that your grey matter will explode out your ears, just to alleviate the pressure in your skull. I've had migraines since I was a teenager so this is nothing new. But today I was convinced I had a brain tumor. And that I was going to drop dead on the floor of Trader Joes (this is an unfortunate side effect of reading books about cancer). And my first thought was "I hope I don't pee myself in front of everyone". And my second thought was that my son would grow up without a mother. And then I was kind of reassured that I had my blog because at least Micah could read it and feel close to me. And then all I could think was that my blog is full of bitching and moaning about how exhausting it is to be a mother. About how much I need more sleep, or miss my shoes, or am dying of boredom. And then I had the worst thought of all - what if he thinks I don't love him?
So I vowed that if I survived the headache (you know me, never one to underplay the dramatic), I'd write a post about how much I really and truly love my son. A sad, soppy, sappy, cheesy, nauseatingly gushing post about how he's everything in my life. So that if I ever drop dead, he could read it and know how I feel without a shadow of a doubt. Except now that I've sat down to write, I just can't do it. The problem is, I don't know how to do gushing. And I'm missing the gene for soppy. Plus, I like to think he'll love that I'm sarky and kickass and smart. And that he'll hate the hallmark channel as much as I do.
So Micah, here is what I will say. I love you. I love that you make your own way in life. That you live in a magical land of your own creation. I love that you move ants off the path so they won't get stepped on. I love that you're shy with people and brave with life. That no slide is too high, no wave too big, no skateboard too fast. And that you question everything, even if it drives me barmy some days.
Your dad and I are thinking about whether you should have a brother or sister. And I'm terrified. A little because I don't know if I can handle it. And a little because I don't think its possible to love anyone as much as you. But mostly because I don't think my heart can handle the weight. I feel like it will shatter into a million pieces if I have to share it all over again.
I really hope I get to live another 60 years. I want to show you the streets of Harajuku and the mountains of KwaZulu Natal. And I when you're older I want to teach you to curse. Properly. And how to make milk tart. And how totally cool it is to be kickass. That tattoos and graffiti can bring beauty to places that don't believe it exists. And how important it is to be smart. Not grade-smart. But streetsmart, lifesmart. And I want to show you the honor of callouses on your hands. And of giving to others. And teach you to love fearlessly. If all I do in my life is give you the gift of fearless love, I will be happy. At the end of the day, what else is there?