Dear Paxton,

You know that feeling when you are holding your breath and you think you can’t hold it one second longer?  or

That feeling you get when your heart feels like it’s so close to your throat that you don’t know if you should swallow or throw up? or

That feeling when your car loses control on the ice and starts spinning, and you are turning the wheel to the right, and then the left trying to correct it, but then you just close your eyes? or

That feeling when you know the only way down is to jump, but the jump seems so far away, and you linger, toes on the edge and count backwards from 10…five times? or

That feeling when you have to be somewhere in 3 minutes and you are 15 minutes away? or

That feeling when someone you love is very sick, and your phone rings? or

That feeling when you find yourself completely lost in a city you don’t know? or

That feeling when you are riding a roller coaster and it drops, but not right at the top….the part when you’ve been dropping for a long time and you’re not sure where you left your insides?  or

That feeling when you are driving over the speed limit, carefree, and then you see the lights? or

That feeling when you are swallowing water and you feel like you are moments away from drowning?

I’m somewhere in there.

This beautiful thing happened this summer.  I learned you.  I learned what makes you happy, what makes you mad.  I learned how to make you giggle so hard you lose your breath. I learned you get a little sassy when you don’t get your way. I learned how you like to sleep and how you like to play.  I learned that you start to breathe really fast when you get excited now. I learned that you love fruit and you hate peas (I don’t blame you). I learned that you love to splash in the water, to feel the breeze on your face, and to put your feet in your mouth when you wake up from a nap. I learned to set my phone, my laptop, (even my camera) down sometimes, and just be with you.  More importantly, I sat back and watched you learn.

You’ve started this new thing where I can just see your mind working.  The wheels appear to almost be spinning in your eyes.  It happens when I let you touch the leaves on a tree, the screen on a window, the fur of a puppy.  It happens when a piece of my hair falls down and you gently reach up and let it tickle your fingers.  I can already see pieces of me in you, and one of the big ones is my love for learning.  Never stop learning and never stop exploring.  Some people “settle” on careers, on spouses, on life.  Keep reaching for new things, but know when you’ve found YOU.

So now, after 10 weeks of learning you, I’m supposed to wake up Monday morning and go back to work.  I will be greeted with 20 students whom also need to learn, whom also need me. They can’t have a teacher that can only give 90%, so I will give them 100.  But you won’t be there.  I can’t sneak into your room and watch you nap.  I can’t play peek-a-boo and hear your belly laugh. I can’t stare at the monitor waiting for you to wake up, even though I have a dirty house and a million pictures to edit.  I can’t take you with me.  You see, for 9 months during the school year last year, I could take you anywhere. You were permanently an amazing reminder of life.   And now, I can’t.  Someone else will put your giraffe blankie next to you when it’s time to nap.  Someone else will feed you your oatmeal and peaches, your green beans and pears. You will go back to taking bottles and I will reunite with the ever-dreaded pump. You will play with someone else’s hair and grip someone else’s fingers with your toes.  There is a chance….gulp….that someone else might see you take your first step, or hear your first word. I’m treading ever so delicately in the midst of accepting this.

 You are my last breath of air before I go under water, because I know I will come home to you each day at 3:41 (because we can leave school at 3:40). I am baffled that women all over the world go back to work.  I’m stunned that other mommies love their babies like I love you, and yet are still able to function apart.  I’ve heard over and over that you are going through this brief separation anxiety phase.  That it won’t last forever.  That eventually you’ll be ok staying with other people when I hand you off.  But what’s the prescription for me?   I can read about what to do for you when you might cry  out “mama”, but I wonder if you feel half as empty as I do when I walk out that door.

Please know that I work for a million reasons.  Your daddy and I want to be able to provide for you, to save for your future.  I want to be able to buy you new toys even though you’d rather play with the box, with a blade of grass, or with the rolls on your knees. I genuinely love to teach, because I love to learn and I love to watch kids learn.  I want you to know that things don’t come easy.  It is important to work and to appreciate what you have.  I appreciate that I have you.  That I have a job that gives me 10 beautiful weeks to explore. That this brief season has given me the chance to breathe you in, to learn you.

So off I go, my roller coaster dropping to no end.  But sometime I will hear the breaks screech.  I will feel my neck jerk as the ride comes to a halt.  And I will have another moment, as quick as it may be, to love you, to learn you, and to just be Mom.

I love you,

Your mom.