House on the Rock

My dearest boy,

Already, I feel the mom guilt that I whipped out a letter to your sister in no time and this one is coming together bit by bit a whole week later, my computer often opened just to watch the cursor blink.

But if I pull back that thin veil of guilt and consider reality, it’s because we’ve lived no shortage of life to the full in the final weeks of your only-childhood. We’ve been to the state fair twice, taken many trips to the zoo, spent hours jumping from park to park to park, pulled into Chick-Fil-A without hesitation (sometimes multiple days in a row), and found every tractor-mower-combine in every field we ever could.

The mundane moments at home have been just as joyful: hearing your vocabulary explode in a vast array of monosyllabic sentences, turning every toy and trinket into a training camp for your throwing arm, listening to Daddy read devotions at dinner, and celebrating every puzzle piece placement you perfect. I’d like to say we’ve read 15 million books, but the truth is that we’ve read four books 15 million times: Hot Dog Cold Dog, all the Richard Scarry stories, Don’t Forget to Remember, and Oh, I Prayed for You. You are bright, funny, full of energy and all boy. Your dad and I have laughed harder and smiled brighter with you than any season of life before.

And there’s another reason it’s taken me so long to get to this letter. It would seem I can’t linger long on the topic without tears beginning to brim my eyes, spilling out and sending me straight to your side to hug you, hold you, and hope you know how thankful I am for these twenty months with you.

You, my firstborn baby boy, made me a mama. You’ve shaped me, strengthened me, and sweetened every single second of our days. The Lord used you to sanctify me, steady me, and show me the depths of His glorious love. My fallen self flows with a fraction of our Father’s love, and yet I see His heart better because I’ve gotten to love you.

There are going to be days you feel slighted, I’m sure. Your sister’s life will likely hit us like a hurricane, shaking all the rhythms of life we have known. I might have to ask you to turn off your mower, to walk and not be carried, to say “not now, buddy” when the trash truck roars outside. But you, even at just twenty months, are kind, resilient, flexible, and calm. While you may not be the gentlest, I’ve watched you move on without fury when we’re at a toddler playdate and the truck you are steering is snatched from your hand. You bounce back when we say no, you’re learning what we shouldn’t throw, and each day I see you respond better to commands.

I promise that I won’t forget how much you love your mower. I promise I’ll still push you as high as I can on the swing. I promise we can point to every page of Richard Scarry as you tell me what the cow says, and we’ll laugh together when you plug your ears as I sing.

I know you will eventually be the very best big brother. It might not happen right away, but we’ve been praying for some time that you would mirror your Maker: gentle, a protector, a defender of the weak. We pray you’ll love her fiercely and that you would see so clearly how God is shaping you into the best man you can be.

Your dad and I are proud of you in every single way. I’m praying there’s not a moment you’re forgotten. I can’t wait to continue watching you shine, you precious towheaded sweet child of mine. And on those rare moments where it’s just you and me, we’ll cheers our cherry popsicles and point out all the birds and bugs, watching airplanes soar against the vast Midwestern sky. I know there’ll be one more to our pack, but I’ll never forget these twenty months at home, you and I.

A mighty change is coming, my boy, and I can feel it. I can tell by your snuggles you’re feeling it too. But the sweetness of a sister mixed with all your antics, mister, will bring a richer fullness even better than what we knew. I love you!