This time ten years ago I was fighting for my life, and Declan’s. I know that is so dramatic sounding, but it really was… dramatic. After Bryan and I dropped the kid at school today, we looked at each other and said – well, right about now they were flying down the hall with you clutched to a stretcher, trying to figure out why you were bleeding so badly.
But mostly, it has been a joy, a privilege, to watch what started out as four pounds of fight for life turn into a thoughtful, calm, funny, sensitive child.
I enjoy Declan. Truly enjoy his company.
Not that I didn’t before – but it was different. That was more from a caretaker role.
Now I like hearing what he will say, and how he will make me laugh – how he surprises me all the time. Watching him show traits from both his father and me, but also become his own person.
When he was approaching his first birthday, I asked friends and family to write private letters to him, to be opened on his 18th birthday. I have seen similar stories around the blogosphere, and the emotion that wells up with these sorts of letters are read.
In our case, Declan’s grandfather and great-aunt have passed since these letters were packed away. I am thrilled that my kid will have these pieces of family when he is an adult, but as I look at my son, now, today – at ten years old – I am so sad Pop Pop and Aunt Kitty will not get a chance to know him.
Because he is damn awesome.