Baby Puck

Dear Preston,

Ive started this letter a thousands times, in a thousand different ways and no matter what I write it doesn't feel genuine. I want to express to you what today was about, what it meant to your father and I, but for the life of me I can't seem to get it right. Maybe it's the exhaustion. After six long months we finally got the news we have been so desperate to receive, but too scared to really hope for. Your heart has healed itself. There won't be need for a surgical team, or a hospital stay, or for a neat vertical scar down your sweet little chest - a scar we would all carry in one way or another. All that anxiety, and worry, and nerves- all the tears and prayers and anger came to a head today and was finally expelled.

When the good news was revealed to us I thought I would be screaming in delight, laughing hysterically, or crying tears of joy - maybe a combination of all of the above; but instead I just feel...tired. I didn't expect my relief to manifest in such a physical way - to feel it in my bones and muscles. Maybe this is what true relief feels like. A release so immense that you are left battered and barely able to move. Finally, I don't have to be wound so tight, and I don't have to be that overprotective mother anymore. I can put you down, I can let you explore, I can take you out and show you off, and what's more I can enjoy all those little moments I stopped taking for granted a while ago, while simultaneously looking forward to tomorrow. 

You are six months old today. You are doing what every typical six month old is doing. You are rolling over, laughing, smiling, and starting solid foods. You drool like a son of a gun and will put anything into your mouth without exception. You are six months old - and you are healthy.

I love you Preston. Thank you for such a beautiful Mother's day gift, I couldn't have asked for anything better.

Mom.