In three days, you will be six. You probably know by now that I love celebrating each new year with you and that I don't mourn the passing of your childhood. As a child myself, I loved growing up. I imagine you do, too, and so I am excited for you. I really am. By the time you read this, I hope I have made myself clear on that. This year is a bit different, though. You're not just a bit taller, a bit funnier, full of a larger vocabulary, kind-of-the-same kid. You're changing. And now, as excited as I am for you, I am also a bit sad for me.
You've heard your birth story a hundred times. You've heard it three times this week. I've played it over in my own head at least ten times since the beginning of the month. When you were born, I became a parent. In a way, a new me was born, too. We started a new journey together, and for that reason, you will always be special. You changed me. You made me a new person. You made me feel the joy of parenthood, of taking care of others. You made me go to nursing school. You made me work in pediatrics. You shaped my life. You did. You're six. And you've drastically changed my life...and others.
You don't know yet how special you are. I do. I know your soul in a way that I cannot put into words. Your newly-acquired attitude, the small chip riding on your shoulder, the sharp tongue that just showed up, I can see what it's leading toward. I can see how you are developing into a strong, independent, free-thinking man. It's happening way faster than I imagined, and I am as proud of your ambitious nature as I am frustrated with the present-day disposition. I know you think that you know it all. I know that you think I am over-bearing. I imagine it's only going to get worse. And I will get mad. And you will get mad. But when you and I both call a truce, when we sit down to read a book, when you let down your guard and giggle that giggle I know so well, when your cheeks flush pink with happiness, when your eyes light up like your soul just turned itself on, I see you in there. I know you're the Patrick I met nearly six years ago. You're the one who is destined for such great things, you cannot even fathom them yet. And you're starting to turn into that guy. And I can be okay with that. In a few days.
Right now, I can still smell your neck the night we brought you home. I remember the lighting in the living room when you cried for hours because I hadn't the sense to dress you warmly. I remember the first time I left the house with you (Leeney came because I completely lost all sense for a few days). I remember the outfit you wore on your first Valentine's Day. I remember you as a baby. My baby. And, as I got to know you then, I knew you were special. I know now more than ever.
Keep your spirit: It spits fire and enthusiasm.
Keep your voice: Ask lots of questions. Introduce yourself. People love you.
Keep your humor: Your laugh will make your soul bloom.
Keep that wit: Seriously. Your smart friends will get it.
Be gentle. Be humble. Be patient. Be understanding. These things will take some work, but they will make your life extra special.
You, son, are the very root of my heart. When you grow, it grows. I'm proud of who you are becoming. I am proud of who you are.
You are our favorite Patrick John Edward. You're our favorite oldest son. You are the first best thing that has ever happened to us.
We loved you then, we love you still.
Always have, always will.
Happy (almost) birthday, Pjew.
With my whole heart,
Mom
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