I woke up in a cold sweat this morning--something is wrong. A quick glance at my phone confirmed, 3:08 a.m. Immediately my thoughts turned to you and your sister. I remembered the therapist telling you both, "When you need to talk to Kirsten, just say your prayers. I bet she'll hear you." This is about the time you normally wake up with nightmares. Either 2 or 3 like clockwork. "My parents never give me a hug, they just let me be scared," I remember you saying. I'm right here, Bud, I whisper into the dark. And I pray that you can hear me, too. It's your birthday today. I can't help but picture what it would have been like. We had our theme all picked out: Dinofour. You wanted to have "dino balls" like the mermaid ones we had for Bug. {I'm not sure where I would have found those.} We were going to put party hats on your dinosaur toys for decoration. You wanted to invite your teachers and your best friends, Cameron and Everett. When you first came, you didn't even know how to interact with other kids. Emotional attachment disorder the diagnosis read. But in reality, you just hadn't been taught how to attach. By the time the five-month mark rolled around, I could barely get your backpack on as we entered the school because you were excitedly waving to your friends and calling their names. I am so sorry we couldn't be there today to celebrate with you, love. But that didn't stop us from sending you big birthday wishes. Even though we aren't able to spend our mornings together anymore or take nature walks and gather up treasures, I still have big Mama hopes and expectations for you. I expect you to remember that you are loved. You are worthy of joy, respect, and kindness. I hope that you will always remember that we love you, God loves you, and that does not change—no matter where you are. I expect you to be kind and make good choices, because you are better than what was done to you. I pray amazing things for you because you are incredibly smart, abundantly loving, and insatiably curious. I expect you to always have a gentle touch toward others because you, unfortunately, know what a harsh touch can do. I pray for friends who love and adore you as much as I know you will cherish them. I hope that you will always love books as much as you loved reading them with me. I expect you to always find constructive ways to channel your anger and frustration—even if that means squeezing a dinosaur. I hope that they support, love, and encourage you in ways that you were missing before. I hope that you can feel a Mama's love from miles away because you and your sister will forever carry a piece of my heart. And I hope that you find a very special leaf to commemorate this occasion and that you put it in your "treasure box." And when you twirl it in your fingers, love, remember that someone was {and still is} unapologetically crazy about you. xoxo
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AuthorWriting is really my outlet, so you'll mostly see my prose on here. But William might occasionally make a guest appearance. Archives
May 2021
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