When the doctor announced you were a boy and gently laid
you on my chest I didn’t know at the time that you would be my last. When you
wrapped your little hand around my finger and our eyes met for the first time I
had no idea that it would be the last time I experienced a bond so new. When I
brought you home and rocked you in the nursery I didn’t know at the time that
you would be the last baby to make that nursery a home. Looking back, I realize that just like the
firsts were so very special with your brother, the lasts were just as special
with you.
It’s ironic that when I first found out I was pregnant
with you I was both excited and yet somehow still nervous. I was so very afraid there just wouldn’t be
enough of me to equally love you and your brother. Oh how wrong I was. The
moment you were born I quickly figured out that I didn’t have to share my heart
with you both, instead my heart grew bigger. It grew so big that I immediately
knew having “enough love” was never going to be a problem of ours.
There of course came a point in time that I did in fact
realize you were the last puzzle piece. You were the part of our family that
was missing and with you our family became complete. Of course with that
epiphany came the realization that you were the last baby. I want you to know
that being the last baby comes with a great deal of responsibility and honor.
You see your brother paved the way. He was our first, but you my love, you are
our last. Your brother started our family and you completed it. The engine of
the train leads the way, but without the caboose the train would be missing
something. You are our caboose.
In case you should ever start to doubt just how much you
mean to me I want you to take this letter and keep it with you always.
My dearest caboose,
My love for you was big from day one and only grew
bigger. I wasn’t always good about
writing down your milestones but each and every one of them is etched in my
mind and they will remain there…always. The first time you called me mama, the
first time you laughed, the first time you crawled, the first time you walked,
and the very first time you ran and didn’t look back right away.
I remember the smell of your head. I remember the
softness of your feet. That is love. Love holds onto these little moments. I
remember your first day of preschool and in a blink there we were at your
preschool graduation.
I remember putting you on the big school bus for the
first time and knowing you were ready but doubting that I was. I wasn’t. I remember comforting you when you were
scared and sharing in your excitement when you hit your first baseball. I
remember your joy of art projects and spending my days picking up scraps of
paper remnants while my feet stuck to random pieces of tape. I remember knowing
that I would surely miss them both.
I remember the way you passionately called every child in
your class your friend before saying their name when you would tell me a story
about them at the dinner table. I remember the way you looked up to your
brother. I remember the way you just wanted to play with the big kids. I
remember when you became the big kid. I thought I was ready. I wasn’t.
I remember the way you gave everything your all. I remember
knowing you were always going to try your hardest, you were going to love big,
and you were going to always be a giant light shining in the dark.
I remember the many times I smiled with pride and hid the
tears as to not embarrass you, but they were there. They were always there. With every step, every turn, every milestone
you amaze me. You make my heart continue to grow. One day I will be standing in a sea of
parents watching our babies graduate from high school. I want you to know
that the tears are my way of trying to let go of the baby who first wrapped his
hand around my finger and the smile is my way of letting you know that it’s
okay. It’s OK, because in letting go you somehow make my heart continue to
grow. In the end your brother is the
engine and you are the caboose, but I am the engineer and once I get you both safely
to where you are going my job is complete, which is ironic because my dear
caboose you completed me.
"and
she loved
a
little boy
very, very much
-even more
than
-she loved
herself."
Shel Silverstein The Giving Tree
