My son is 2½ years old.

It’s just the two of us now.

He’s learning to talk. Each day he learns a handful of new words. Each new word is a light shining into my heart.

Nothing in this world brings me so much joy or anxiety as my terribly cute little boy. Nothing in my life has ever been loved with such devotion.

His little grin is what keeps me going. Some days it brings me up and makes me smile, others I think it’s the only thing that keeps me from losing my top.

Last night when I went to bed I scooped him up and brought him with me. I never do this normally because I don’t want to break him from it later, but last night it was especially cold and I wanted to make sure he was cozy.

His warm little breaths on my arm under his goldilocks head reminded me of when he was my little baby sleeping in my arms nursing. He is such a blessing. The only person alive I’d suffer anything for. The only thing that’s worth it.

I pray for strength, and wisdom and peace all for his benefit. I pray to be a good mother and protect his perfect little
heart.

I’ve endured so much at the hands of my parents selfish neglect. For him I want better. The only problem is that with shit parents, I’ve got no experience with how to be a good parent, but all the motivation in the world to learn.

I have made mistakes, and I’m certain there will be plenty more on the next 18 years. But hopefully none so amazingly thoughtless as those that shaped my early life.

I’d like to promise, but how can I? I could choose the exact opposite path and fuck up in entirely new ways. Rather than neglect him I could overcompensate and smother him or enable him or spoil him. It’s such a fine line to walk. Nothing is simple in this job.

I want the best for him because I got shit. Because I got shit I’m not the best. It’s sort of a catch 22. So I pray and I try to learn from my mistakes and hopefully I will love him enough to make up for them all.