Some would say why bother writing a letter to Boo, he isn’t going to read it and if he does he won’t understand. I say, I was told this boy wouldn’t do any of the things he has achieved, who knows what the future holds. And if he is 40 when he reads this letter, then I am cool with that. And if he never reaches the point where he can truly understand it, cool again. As my Moo says….. its all good.
My booful boy. My precious little man.
My forever baby.
Oh, how we wanted you. For years Daddy and I tried for you with many losses along the way. But, although hard, they were necessary for us to have such a wonderful little man at the right time. When you were born we were ready. Your sisters were ready. We were all ready for the lessons you would soon teach us. Patience, strength, persistence, courage and pure love.
I remember when you were born. Such a calm birth compared to your sisters. The doctor handed you to me and I held you. Something I didn’t get to do with the girls, I was too sick. In recovery I fed you straight away. You stared deep into my eyes and I wept. The connection was there from the first few minutes.
I remember our first morning together. Daddy had to go to work and I was still in the hospital. We were so lucky to be in a hospital where the Daddies got to stay. We had our own room and a queen sized bed. The three of us together. I had the radio on to listen to Daddy and so you could hear his voice.
‘Don’t want to miss a thing’ by Aerosmith came on. I know it is a love song, but the words fit perfectly to how I felt about you. I could not stop staring into your perfect little face. To this day that song makes me cry. Happy tears.
Then you turned blue. Three times you had to stop breathing before the nurses would take me seriously. Then all hell broke loose. We lost our cocoon and you were transferred to the special needs nursery. How ironic.
For 18 months you had a breathing monitor attached to your body. Affectionately coined the ‘ticker’ it made a ‘mysterious ticking noise’ whenever you took a breath. If it was dislodged or you stopped breathing a deafening alarm would go off. It didn’t need to. I was so attuned to the ticking I knew before it went off.
Just after we graduated from the ticker you were diagnosed with Autism. My little genius boy, who was reading and writing already just choosing not to speak was…….. different.
We developed our own little language in sign.
I love you.
And my favourite. You are my sunshine.
We would sing it together all the time. In the car, on walks, in the park, at the supermarket. In voice and in sign. Your eyes would light up when I would sing and you would grab my hands to make me sign it too.
You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You will never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away….
Boo, you are my sunshine. I might complain about sleeplessness and destruction, but as I sit here, in the pre-dawn of your 9th birthday, with you laying next to me – Daddy relegated to your bed as is quite often the case – I gaze at you and realise how lucky I am.
Nothing comes easy in your life. You are constantly bombarded by sounds, images, smells that distract or distress you. Yet you have come so far. Much further than anyone ever hoped for. You are a true miracle. A lesson in determination. And in pure innocent joy.
Whenever I need to remember, I just have to watch you eat an apple, play on the computer, hear a new song or give you a tickle or cuddle. Pure Innocent Joy.
My forever baby, we are one.
P.S. I hope you like your presents. They are not what your asked for but firstly, you are not old enough to drive a taxi. Secondly, Streets icecream won’t let me have one of their freezers unless we own a store. And lastly, I have tried to get you are real movie clapperboard but Mr. Speilberg won’t return my calls. But I am on it. This is the one, right?