March 15, 1998 you became a part of your new family. This date holds so much more significance for me than your birthday, or mother’s day, or all the days you are in my heart and on my mind.
For some reason this year seemed harder than it has been in a very long time. I’m not sure why that is. The day replayed over and over in my mind as if I had gone back in time. I remembered things I had been afraid I had forgotten. I remembered things clearly that have become fuzzy with time.
You were 2.5 years old. We had made it that far. We had a bond that was beyond most simply because it had always been just you and me. I want to share that Sunday with you.
I had taken every step imaginable to make the transition as easy as possible for you. I tried to pretend that everything was good. That I was happy. That the changes that were going to take place were normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to be upset about. This was going to be a happy time for you. A time that you were being given the gift of a mom AND a dad. A time that would erase any memory of hardship and having to do without even the basic necessities. I made sure you were excited. I never let you see me when I was feeling the loss that was about to occur for me.
On Saturday at 7:30pm, just as we had every day for the past 2.5 years. I tucked you in. I told you that tomorrow was the big day that you would go to your new house with R & P. I told you how it would be a big day, an exciting day and to make sure you got some “big sleep” (You always insisted it was big sleep, not good sleep). We said our prayers, we said goodnight to the moon, the trees, and about 25 other things. We had a routine and we stuck with it.
You were always a good sleeper. You never woke up in the middle of the night. But that night you did. You woke up and called for me. It’s as if you understood that it was our last night together. The last night we would ever be considered mother and son to the world as a whole. When I walked into your room you asked if we could sleep together on the futon. We had never slept together and neither of us had slept on the futon. I told you no, that we both had to sleep in our beds just like always. You cried. You never cried over something so seemingly silly. You insisted that we “camp on the futon, Mummy, PLLLLEEASEEE”. So we did…
You snuggled up to me and never let go of my hand. You woke me up on Sunday morning staring at me nose to nose. You didn’t want to get up and play like you normally did. You wanted us to camp some more. We had breakfast, we played, we did everything that we normally did.
When it was time to go meet R & P, you happily put your coat on, you got your blanket and started out the front door.
All of us met at Papa’s office. You loved Papa’s office… You ran around and laughed. You took turns giving all of us rides in Papa’s desk chair. It seemed just like any other day all in all.
I want to tell you more… but its too difficult right now. It’s to difficult to put my feelings into words. But, most importantly I want to tell you about that last moment that is so remarkably clear right now. I put you in your car seat in R & P’s car. You asked for an Eskimo kiss. Then you took those chubby hands on both sides of my face and pulled me down. You wiped the one tear that escaped in spite of my using every ounce of strength I had to not cry in front of you. You then said the words that will never leave my memories…
“No cry Mummy! I love you fiffy building dump trucks every day Mummy.”
I love you 50 Billion Dump Trucks each and every day too, Seth! I hope that all my dreams for you come true.
Love Always, Mummy
Once you finish, read her second letter to Seth here.
