And it’s because of you that I don’t do FOAD

I had promised earlier this week that Thursday would be my first edition of FOAD. Some of you knew right away that I was lying because I have said that I wouldn’t do FOAD because I just can’t bring myself to tell someone to fuck off and die.

There was a time when I could have probably said that without thinking twice. There was also a time when I thought that nothing in the world matter as much as me. A time when my proudest achievement was how long I could go without sleep and what kind of sordid things I could convince some stranger in a bar to do – without requiring pictures for future proof.

There was a time when I was sure my success in life would be measured by the size of my bank account and the square footage of my big-city high rise apartment.

I had no need for anyone or anything, except me.

And then, seven years ago today, my son was born at 2:14 in the morning.

I hadn’t planned him, and I never in a million years had imagined I would want him. During my pregnancy, I seriously considered adoption – but not for the reasons I would have thought. I didn’t want to give him up because of what he could do to my life, but because of what I feared I would do to his.

It was probably the first truly unselfish thought I had had in years.

People would ask me what I “wanted” – a boy or a girl. And I would tell them that it didn’t matter because I instinctively knew, long before a doctor could tell me, that he was a boy. That was the closest thing to a maternal instinct I’d ever experienced.

When he was born, I looked at him in the hospital and waited for the rest of those instincts to kick in. I was scared out of my mind because I didn’t feel anything. Nothing to tell me that this one was mine, and not just some Baby Boy they had attached my name to in the nursery.

I remember thinking that he was absolutely the most gorgeous creature I had ever seen, with his silky smooth complexion and ginormous blue eyes – but that if anyone thought I was going to take a bullet for this kid they were freaking crazy. I wondered what the hell was the matter with me that I didn’t hear the angels singing or feel someone automatic lioness protection.

I wondered about the sanity of the hospital staff when they sent him home with me without so much as a training video on how to raise a child.

And then he came home and we lay next to each other on the couch and I realized that somehow, God had gotten it right in spite of me.

In the last seven years, my son has done more for me than I could ever possibly do for him.

And the obligatory mushy stuff that one does about their children on their birthday? He’s brilliant, and funny, and sensitive and still the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. He is wise beyond his years.

And he is the reason why I think twice before telling someone to fuck off and die. Because seven years later, I am still trying to be the person he deserves me to be.

Happy Birthday my baby. I mean it every time I tell you that you were my miracle child.

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About the Author: Becky