I wrote the letter below for Jack — and really, for myself — because I needed to get the words out.
I have been dreading the eight-week postpartum mark because that means I only have four more weeks of maternity leave at home with our son. The days of caring for a fussy baby have been long and exhausting, but the weeks have been oh so short.
Our entire world changed the day Jack was born and again on the day we brought him home — that was the day we officially started our life together as a family of three.
And now, life as we know it will change again as I head back to work and leave my boy in the care of a someone who, lets face it, is a complete stranger to him and us.
It makes me angry that I only get 12 weeks at home with him (and that some parents don’t even get that — that fact has not escaped me). It makes me angry that the first seven weeks of his life were spent with me begging him to just be happy as he fussed for hours without end because, as it turns out, he was colicky. And now that he is finally growing out of that phase, it’s nearly time for me to leave him in someone else’s care. And that someone is going to get all his happy boy smiles and giggles that I’ve been so desperate for.
It isn’t fair.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my job and my colleagues, but I love my son more.
My Boy,
Today I laid on the couch with you while you slept — “The Lion King“ playing on the TV — and I tried to bask in every second of that simple, ordinary, everyday moment.
I ran my hand across your head, feeling the softness of your strawberry blonde hair.
I felt the warmth of your little body snuggled up against mine.
I gazed at your tiny hands raised up next to your head; at your long, beautiful eyelashes that are finally starting to grow in; at your chubby cheeks and your perfectly shaped lips; and at the way your chest rises and falls with each breath you take.
I tried my best to capture every part of this moment — of you — in my memory because moments like this are fleeting. And I feel that so powerfully right now.
I nursed you to sleep, not because you wanted me to, but because I wanted to. Because in a few weeks, nursing you to sleep in the middle of the day won’t be an option.
In four weeks I’ll return to work and these days at home with you — days just like today — will be no more. The realization of that breaks my heart.
It makes me sad to think that I won’t be there to comfort you during the day when you’re sad. My heart races when I think of someone else caring for you. And I cry when I wonder if you’ll be looking for me while you lay in your bed at daycare.
I don’t know how the last eight weeks have gone by so fast. But it’s cruel; it’s cruel that you’re still so small and that I’m expected to hand you off to someone else after only 12 weeks of getting to know you.
You still need me. I’m your mom and you still need ME.
