A LETTER TO MY SON

My Dear Shep, 

You turn 5 this week. 

I’d be lying if I said this birthday wasn’t hitting me hard. For starters, you’re my last baby and 5 is just. so. old. Having my youngest child turn 5 graduates me from a young mom to just a plain old mom. How did we get here?? 

Birthdays are always bittersweet with you, my sweet boy, but 5 feels especially hard. Five is the year many kids are learning to read, taking the training wheels off their bikes, starting Kindergarten, making first friends at school. But for you, five won’t be any of those things. And even after all this time of getting used to that realization, it still hurts. 

Each year, you are growing and changing so much physically—you’ve already lost your first couple teeth and gained two adult ones and I am NOT okay with it. You’re bigger and stronger than you were a year ago and it’s getting harder to carry you around. Your body keeps aging, but your mind and soul are still so, so young. My little Peter Pan, it feels like you’ll never fully grow up. How is it possible for this very thing to feel like a gift and grief? Maybe one day we will celebrate a birthday without it feeling like ripping off a scab. But maybe we won’t. And that would be okay too. Because scabs are a sign of healing—which has already begun, but won’t be complete until Jesus calls us home. Until then, sadness and joy can both have a place in our home. 

I don’t know all that five holds for you, Shep. Maybe this is the year you learn to sit all by yourself. Or walk around the house in your gait trainer. Maybe you’ll sign or speak your first word. Or maybe you won’t do any of those things. 

But I do know that this year, you will smile ‘til your whole face squints. You’ll hold my finger tightly in your hand. You will laugh hysterically at leaf blowers, lawn mowers, trash bags being opened, and at absolutely nothing at all. You will blow raspberries at dinnertime and fling food on the floor. You will squawk loudly in quiet places and never feel ashamed of a fart. You will listen to your favorite songs and start rocking back and forth when a real banger comes on (Wheels on the Bus, I’m looking at you!). This year, you will be tickled by your brother, smothered with kisses by your sister, and snuggled by your mama and daddy. You will bring joy to everyone who has the privilege of knowing you. Because that is just who you are. 

Coming up on half a decade with you, it’s hard not to reflect on just how much life has happened for our family over the last 5 years. I remember holding you in the hospital the night you were born. You were swaddled in a brown muslin blanket and adorned with a little pixie bonnet I’d crocheted. Your daddy and I looked into your sleepy face and adored your long fingers and toes, and we wondered aloud what you’d be like as you grew. 

You are nothing like we expected you to be. You have been our greatest surprise in life. 

And if I’m being honest, for someone as Type A as me, surprises can be a challenge. 

I remember early on in our journey, I was so determined that if I worked hard enough and did everything right, we’d help you catch up and close your developmental gaps.  Each day, I was playing the roles of physical therapist, speech therapist, feeding therapist, and occupational therapist in addition to carting you around to see all the real professionals we’d lined up to help you succeed. Every moment of the day was a chance to be working on developing skills. I wouldn’t allow myself to just sit and snuggle you. I’d prop you up away from me so you could be working on your head and neck control. I wouldn’t allow myself to just play with you—I had to turn every minute into a teachable, skill-building moment. I was trying so hard to wear all the hats that I forgot how to rest in my most important role—mom. 

By His grace, God has helped me to trust that He alone is sovereign over your progress. We still do all the therapies, but I’ve learned to stop putting all my hope in them. I’ve learned to slow down and actually enjoy you where you are at and stop striving so hard for more. Today, we snuggle, we read, we go for long walks, we listen to music, we blow bubbles. I’m no longer trying to “fix” you. I’m learning to embrace you fully. Because you don’t need another therapist. You need a mom. If all you ever learn from me is that you’re loved, it will have been enough. 

God has been so good to us, Shep. He’s proven Himself faithful. Proven Himself near. He is working all of our hard things for good. He has given so much peace and joy in the midst of hardship. I never thought we’d be where we are today. But I should’ve expected God to exceed my expectations. That’s just what He does. 

Shepherd, as we celebrate your 5th birthday, I am reminded of the gift you are to me. You love unconditionally. You rejoice at the simplest things in life. You smile with your whole being. You laugh with abandon. You are a daily reminder to me that the value we ascribe to trivial things and worldly successes is so often misplaced. You remind me of simple truths. You show me God’s heart for the least of these and paint a vivid picture of how God’s upside down kingdom works. Shep, God giving me you was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me. You woke me up. God has used your life to refine my faith and transform who I am as a person more than anything else in my life. I am so thankful for you. 

I don’t know what the rest of our life’s journey will look like, but I’m so grateful I get to do it with you. I love you more than you’ll ever know. 

Love, 
Mama