Letters to a Son

I'd like to start by saying that before my son was born, I fantasized about what I would say to him when he was old enough to understand me. I entertained the idea of buying a special journal to write letters to him that he could someday read. I would write about the good, the bad, everything. I'm sure this isn't an original idea. How could it be? I'm also sure of the fact that I'm no writer. There was a time when I used to think that I was someone special, but I've come to terms with the fact that I'm excruciatingly average. I hope my son will someday get something out of these letters, however small that something may be.

He is now ten months old and I never started that journal. Time has flown so fast for me and I wish I could go back to before his life began and write to him. Memories are fleeting and I can never make up the lost time. I would like to start that journal now, catching him up on what has happened from his start until the present.

Geddy, I wish I could tell you that before you were born your Father and I graduated college, fell in love, got married, bought a home and decided that we wanted to have children. I wish I could tell you that we did things the way I was brought up to do them, the way that I would hope you would someday do them. That is just not how things happened for us.

When you were conceived, your Father and I barely knew each other. It's true that we were crazy for each other but I don't feel as if we knew each other the way we do today. We simply hadn't had enough time together.

I remember thinking that perhaps I was pregnant and taking a home pregnancy test on February 16, 2009:

"One line means I'm not pregnant. Two lines mean I am." After a few seconds the results were in. "One line. I'm not pregnant." Wait... A barely noticeable, very faint second line appeared. "I'm pregnant?"

I had the pregnancy confirmed at a local pregnancy center with the same result: a very faint, but definitely there, second line. Still not believing it, I had an ultrasound performed only about a month and a half into the pregnancy. I have pictures of you, not looking like much more than a pinto bean with a spine, but you were there.

This next part is hard for me to write. Your Father and I discussed different names we'd like for you, how we would survive with a new baby and all the things in our lives that would certainly change, but we also discussed something else: the possibility of terminating the pregnancy. We spent many, many late nights crying and deciding one way and then the other. One night after a particularly painful crying jag, I said to him something that forever changed our lives, "I already love this baby. I already love this baby so much and I want to keep it."