I haven’t yet read any books in the Twilight series. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I just cannot get into them. I read a few sentences of the first book (my sister owns all the books currently released) and I was bored. People think I’m crazy, and promptly tell me how awesome these novels are, and I’m sure they are amazing. Just not my thing right now. I’ve got other books piling up on my “to-be-read” list.

This morning Dawson dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen and was scavenging the cabinets looking for something to eat. Something he probably shouldn’t have, like fruit snacks or Froot Loops straight out of the box. When I went into the kitchen to bust him, he turned around and said, “This happens every time. Daddy brings home the treats, and BOOM! They’re gone!” I fought the urge to laugh and replied, “Who do you think you are? Madden?” To which my son rolled his eyes and said, “I have no idea what that means.” I promptly peed my pants from the incessant laughter that followed.

Even funnier morning tale:  Dawson was standing in the living room, playing with his new Transformers Bumblebee toy (that he conned me into buying when we went to K-Mart to pick up my prescriptions).  He was explaining how it worked and said something like, “So you move his arms and then his legs and BAM! He’s a robot!”   Continuing the witty reparte I said, “Dawson, you sound like Emeril.”  Again, my child looked at me funny and replied, “Mom, you gotta stop saying such crazy things.  I don’t know what a ‘Mer-ill is!”  That child cracks me up.

I’m sick of being pregnant.  I know that sounds horrible.  I’m just anxious.  I want to meet the little guy who kicks me incessantly.  I want the bloating, the horrible ligament pain and the bat-shit crazy mood swings to be over.  Nine weeks to go.  NINE. Will I make it?

The nesting phase has begun.  Yesterday morning, post work, post doctor appointments, I had this insane urge to organize the playroom slash exercise room.  I began moving boxes and realized I needed help, so my awesome sister came over and helped me make sense of all the crap in the basement.  All the holiday decorations were moved into the closet in our family room.  Toys and books were sorted, and two boxes were set aside for Goodwill.  Next, I cleaned out my closet and finally parted with some too small clothes I was clinging to.  My sister took the ones she liked, the rest were given to GW.  It was hard to get rid of some of those things, but I closed my eyes and the box before I changed my mind.  In total, seven boxes were loaded into the Jimmy, and Goodwill was very happy to receive them.

Today, I have a nagging urge to start organizing the room that Dawson and Baby O will share.  I’m starting to look at the things in my house as entirely too much crap.  Where did all this stuff come from?  And how do I decide what to save, what to toss and what to donate?

Both UPS and FedEx dropped packages at the front door yesterday.  I received the really awesome thing I won from bTrendie (in a BlogHer giveaway) and then we also got Hooked on Phonics (Parent Bloggers Network campaign) and Dawson and I are excited to try HoP.  Stay tuned for more details on that.

My wonderful husband has decided to finally get down to business and remove the old, ugly, yellow shag carpet from the other spare bedroom downstairs. (I have only asked four hundred times.)  I’ve decided I need an office, with a door, to work in peace. Currently, I do my work from the kitchen table or the sofa.  I’m thinking a desk is needed, too.  I just don’t want to spend too much money with a new baby on the way.  I’m sure we’ll figure something out.

I’ve got a confession to make.  I’m addicted to watching Roseanne re-runs on TV Land.  I can’t help it.  I love the early years of this show because it reminds me so much of my family (circa the 80s) when I was growing up.  We were the typical middle class family, two hard working parents trying to make ends meet, two daughters and one son… And then it became even more real when Roseanne had a son later in life, just like my mother had my youngest brother at 39.  Then the Conners won the lottery (JUMPED THE SHARK) and I couldn’t stand it anymore.  So, I suppose I’m reliving some old memories by watching those pre-lottery winning episodes.

I’m in love with the DVR.  We’ve had it for a month now, and I don’t know how we ever got along with out it.  I record Phineas & Ferb for Dawson, and that Transformers cartoon that airs at 5:00 a.m., and movies I’d like to see but don’t have the time right now.  It’s entertainment magic.  Love, love, love.  It will come in handy when Dancing With the Stars airs in three weeks.  Yay!  Miss that show terribly, but I’m sure a certain baby arriving will make it hard to watch the show live.

I think I’m suffering from ADD.  I want to read seven different books all at once, good books, from the library.  Due in 12 days.  I’m starting to mix up the story lines and information (some are non-ficiton).  Perhaps I should just stick to one book at a time.

Back to pregnancy… I’m feeling a wee bit claustrophobic.  Antsy.  And my arms and legs and stomach itch every so often.  I’m starting to think the baby is trying to bust out.  October, please hurry.

Thirty nine.

Ever since I heard the terrible news, I’ve been in a state of shock.  Even though he was sick, even though he battled the illness for three years, even after doctors discovered the cancer had spread to his brain and gave him a month to live (and he died just days later), I cannot believe he is really gone.

I cannot imagine the grief his wife and children are going through.

I cannot believe that someone so young was taken from this Earth so soon.

My husband is only a few years older than our friend’s husband.

Doug and I are 10 years apart in age, and it was never a concern of mine until Dawson was born.  Then I became afraid that he would die unexpectedly and leave me a young widow.  It was an irrational fear, and I knew it.  But I still worried about car accidents and heart attacks and homicidal maniacs taking my husband from me.

I worried about what I would do if I were forced to raise Dawson alone.  I remember waking up in the middle of the night and making sure Doug was still breathing.  Maybe it was postpartum depression or out-of-whack hormones, but I still remember being frightened about all the morbid thoughts.

Eventually my fears subsided and I began to realize that Doug was alive and well and we would grow old together.  But when R. passed away, my fears came back to haunt me.

I cannot bear to think about it, and yet it’s been on my mind these last few days.

Thirty-nine.

I don’t know if this is affecting me more, now that I’m 30 years old, but I keep thinking about how young R. was.

Why do tragedies like these happen?  Why do we have to lose those we love?

I think I’m going to cry again.  It’s just too painful to think about.

I felt kind of sad while I packed away all the ornaments and other holiday decorations.  Even though I’m glad I survived the holidays without killing anyone, I feel like the Christmas season goes by so quickly.  I tried to enjoy all the festivities, but last month was difficult for me.  Dealing with all the infertility stuff and then falling down the stairs sort of took the wind out of my sails.  I was just happy to get through it all.

I’ve spent the last two days cleaning and getting things done.  The hubs is trying to be helpful, but I think I prefer doing it all by myself because he has no idea where anything goes, so he puts it wherever he sees fit, making more work for me.  And this adds to my frustration because I find myself saying, “where the heck is the…” at least ten times a day.

Right now Doug, Dawson and Murphy are at Grandma’s house and I’m enjoying every moment of silence.  There’s something about doing chores while no one else is around to get in the way or ask millions of ridiculous questions or cause too many distractions.

I’m going to attempt to clean Dawson’s room, but the “mom” in me is telling me to wait until he gets home so he can put all his toys away (while I supervise).  I refuse to do anything for him.  I don’t want him to think that it’s my job to pick up after the messes he makes.  I still haven’t even put his laundry away.  I know he’s only four, and he can’t fold a shirt to save his life, but I figure I might as well try to teach him which drawers his socks and underpants belong in.  And since most of the laundry is folded, I can instruct him as to where his clothes belong.  (It all sounds well and good, but I just know I’ll lose my patience and just put it away for him.)

The weather here is rather cold, and I’ve been watching the forecast on the Weather Channel.  It’s supposed to get extremely cold tonight and I’m not happy.  I don’t mind Winter, and I can tolerate snow, it’s the below zero temperatures I can’t stand.  It’s safe to say that I’m looking forward to Spring.

Dawson has been begging to go sledding again, but I’m afraid it’s just not warm enough to be outside.  Freezing winds and icy paths are just not safe, especially for me and my knee.  Speaking of the knee, it’s getting much better.  I had my first yoga class last night, and the stretching is slowly working it’s magic.  I’ve also been doing leg raises (with out any weights) and I can finally bend the knee past a 90 degree angle.  I’m so excited about this, because I really did not want to go to physical therapy.  Next follow-up with the doctor is January 20th.

Also on the 20th, I have a follow-up with Dr. F (my fertility doc) to have an ultrasound (to check the ovaries) and if I’m not pregnant (we’ll see if the period arrives as scheduled next week.  I’m hoping it doesn’t.) I will be trying a round of Clomid.  I’m not really looking forward to that.  I wanted to conceive as naturally as possible, but Dr. F says sometimes Mother Nature (and God?) needs a kick in the pants.

This month I didn’t even worry about pregnancy.  I knew when my fertile days were and we planned our rendezvous accordingly, but I went in with the mindset that this may not be the month.  I’d rather be surprised than disappointed yet again.  I guess I’ve been dealing with this for so long that I’ve become rather indifferent about it all.

To snap myself out of this depressing winter mood, I’ve decided to take Dawson to Appleton this weekend.  We’ve got a date at the Children’s Museum and I’m taking him to Chuck E. Cheese, too.  (I know, after last time, I should be running far away from that place.)  It will give us something fun to do and nothing makes me happier than seeing Dawson smile.   Hopefully I’ll stop feeling so melancholy, too.

———-

Wife.  Mother.  Daughter.  Sister.  Friend.  As a mother I wear many hats.  Too often, I must fulfill many roles and expectations in any given day.

I’m the one who primarily takes care of the child.

I’m the one who does the grocery shopping and bill paying.  I’m the one who sorts the mail and files the important papers.

I’m the one who kisses boo-boos and makes the macaroni and cheese.

I’m the one who works all day and still feels like nothing is ever accomplished.

I’m the one who loses her mind more than once a day.

I’m the one who takes the child to preschool and picks him up each day.

I’m the one who makes frequent trips to the public library for children’s books and to allow said child some playtime.

I’m the one who plans fieldtrips to the Children’s Museum, YMCA and various parks to keep life with a child interesting.

I’m the one who wishes she could have just one day — one entire day — all to herself.

I’m the one who yearns to do things she enjoys instead of sacrificing her wants and needs to those of a 4-year-old.

I’m the one who longs for her husband to say just how much he appreciates everything she does for him and their child.

I’m the one ensures her child spends quality time with his grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins.

I’m the one who tries to take care of everything because it is expected of her.

I’m the one who sometimes cries at night because those expectations are too high.

I’m the one who feels she must be in control ALL THE TIME, because losing control would mean failure in her mind.

I’m the one who feels that motherhood has stolen her identity.

I’m the one who wants ME back.

It might sound like I’m complaining.  It might sound like I don’t like being a wife and mother, but that’s not at all true.  I love my husband.  I love being a wife.  I love my son.  I love being a mom.  I just didn’t realize it would be this hard sometimes.

How do I balance it all?

After more than four years of mothering, and more than seven years of marriage, I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

And maybe I’m not supposed to “know.”  Maybe it’s just something you “do.”  Maybe I’m just supposed to go with the flow and hopefully learn the ropes along the way.  Like on-the-job training or whatever.

I started thinking about all of this over the last few weeks.  I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m becoming physically fit that is making me want to be spiritually, emotionally and mentally “fit” as well?

How do I do that?  How do I achieve that balance?

I’m the one who strives for balance.

I was feeling especially vulnerable when he caught my attention.  My life had been turned upside down, full of chaos.  Things weren’t going my way.  I remember feeling as though I wasn’t loved.  That I didn’t deserve to be loved.  My reaction to these feelings was to build walls around my emotions and let no one tear them down. I was certain that my heart could be stone and that I would feel nothing, not happiness nor sadness — for if I let one feeling escape the castle I had built, the others would follow.

And then I met him.  Our conversations were friendly at first.  We talked about our lives and where we lived and worked.  We spoke of our families and our favorite things.  Our relationship was flirtatious and silly and I loved the attention he gave to me.  His kind and loving words were like millions of tiny chisels chipping away the rock over my heart.

I felt worthy.  I felt loved.  I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.  After weeks of getting to know one another, I went on a five-day vacation without telling him.  When I returned he missed me.  He said he was so happy to see me and asked me never to leave without telling him.  That was the first time I let my guard down.  That was the first time I let him in.

Things that seem too good to be true, often are, and gradually our relationship fell apart.  His attention waned.  He lost interest in me and met someone else.  He gave all his attention to her.  It was a flash of light, as quickly as we met, our relationship was over.

Words were exchanged.  Hurtful words.  I lost control of my feelings.  I was confused because I never really knew what I did to drive him away.  Those old insecurities came flooding back.  I was drowning in my emotions.  I no longer felt loved.  I no longer felt beautiful.

I couldn’t let go of what happened.  I confronted him and somehow he convinced me it was my fault, that I was somehow delusional about our relationship, that I misunderstood what was really going on between us.  He made me think I was feeling things that weren’t really there.  He didn’t love me.

I remember feeling so stupid for ever loving him, that I tried to tell myself this never really happened.  In a rage I took back all the things I said to him.  I told him I didn’t really love him.  Instead of admitting how hurt I was, I told him I was just using him.  It was an attempt to gain control over the situation and it backfired.  He told me he never wanted to speak to me again.  I couldn’t deal with it.  I shut myself off from everyone around me.

I started seeing a therapist.  I wanted so badly to make sense of what had happened.  I felt depressed.  I didn’t want to eat.  I tried to starve myself, thinking that if I were thinner or prettier he would want me again.

Never in my life had I let a man have any power over me.  Why was he any different?  What was it about him that made me lose control?  I couldn’t figure it out.

Dr. G asked me to talk about it, to sort through all the anger and sadness.  I didn’t know if I could do it.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “Who are you? What do you believe to be true about yourself?”

It was a question I didn’t think I could answer.  Who am I?

I’m a woman who loves to be loved.  I want everyone to like me, to see how special I am, to appreciate me for who I am.  I’m a woman who likes to laugh and smile.  I’m a woman who needs more love and affection than most people.  I’m a woman who hates to be rejected.  I’m a woman who is afraid of abandonment.

I thought my reasons for seeing a therapist were to get over the one who hurt me, but as I poured my heart out I realized my feelings had nothing to do with a man loving me and everything to do with me loving myself.

After several long months of getting to know who I was and just being myself, I discovered how great I am.  I learned to be good to myself and to respect who I am.  Gradually, I got over the heartbreak and pain, and I realized the man I thought I loved was simply a lesson to be learned.

We wouldn’t have worked out anyway.  Thinking back on the times we shared together, I realize now he wasn’t as happy as he wanted everyone to believe.  His relationships were complicated.  He depended too much on others to make him happy, to validate who he was.  He was always brooding, and somewhat withdrawn.  He had his own abandonment issues because of his parents’ divorce.

In many ways he reminded me of Dylan McKay, the bad boy character from 90s television show Beverly Hills, 90210.  He even had the great hair to match.  Like Dylan, he was a loner.  While he had friends, he never let them into his life.  He never let them see who he really was.

I can’t say that he was all bad.  He could be kind and sensitive like no other.  He could make a woman feel like the most important person in his world.  He could make you see the same old things in a new light.  He was full of passion, but with that passion was intense heartbreak.  No one could break a heart the way he did.  Everything he says and does, everything he feels is full of intense emotion.

I never thought I could write about that time in my life before now.  I think in so many ways I was embarrassed.  I felt foolish for giving my heart to someone who so easily walked all over it. I realize now that everything happens for reasons we may not know until years later.  He was a lesson to be learned.  He was my Dylan McKay.

I don’t know why I feel like my life is spinning out of control.  Yet I do know.

I know it began when my father had his accident.  I began feeling like time was running out.  That life is too short and there are so many things I have yet to do.

I remember a moment this past summer when I looked at Dawson and began to sob.  It was as though I saw him as an adult, no longer needing his mother to hold his hand while crossing the street.  It was only a split second, yet felt like an eternity, but I thought about growing old.  I thought about my own death.

It scared me so much that I grabbed my son and hugged him so tightly that he began to squirm away.  These irrational feelings come and go.  Feelings of time slipping through my fingers.  I’m only 29 years old.  Young.  And yet I have these visions of turning forty.  Fifty.  Then sixty.  And seventy-five.

I don’t know why it scared me so much.  Perhaps, my father’s accident made me realize how precious our time is on this Earth.  I can’t bear the thought of my parents leaving me one day, but I know it’s inevitable.

For the last few months I’m constantly worrying about ridiculous things.  Like whether or not my house is clean, or if the laundry is put away.  I worry about my financial future and the stock market, and the economy and the election.  I don’t even have the desire to blog because I worry about what I’ll write.

My mind is constantly in a state of panic.  I don’t know how to relax.  I make to-do lists and have no ambition to get any of the stuff done.

This is most likely the reason I struggle with weight and eating healthy.  It’s probably why I suffer insomnia.  It’s contributing to my inability to get pregnant.  And yet, I don’t know how to make it stop.

Maybe I’m just tired.  They say exhaustion makes our perception of things much worse than they really are.

I still workout.  I still try to eat healthy.  I still try to do everything for everybody.

My mind is racing.  I feel like I have attention deficit disorder because my thoughts are spinning like a revolving door.  They drift in, and they drift out.

How do I make it stop?

“Dick Jones, Stevens Point…”

That’s what he said whenever he introduced himself to anyone. Whether it was a friend of many years or a stranger passing on the street, Mr. Jones as I called him, would stop and smile, shake hands and introduce himself.

“Hey there. Dick Jones, Stevens Point…and you?” he’d say, arm extended for that handshake.

He worked at the high school, as a Special Education aid. He always had a smile on his face. He never failed to make his friends laugh, whether it be from a good joke or a playful ape about politics. He loved Irish music, but I think he secretly liked Polkas, even if he never admitted it.

He could talk bullshit with the best of them, and never got angry if you didn’t agree with an opinion. He was just one of those guys who could put a smile on your face with his quirky mannerisms, delightful grin and glimmer in his eye.

Oh how I cried when my father broke the news.

“He had a living will, the team from Madison is coming up for his viable organs, they will be taking him off life support because his chance of recovery is less than 1%.”

I can’t believe I’ll never see Dick again. He was like an uncle to me. I never imagined that when I saw him at the Moose Lodge in April that it would be the last time I’d speak to him.

Memories of our trip to Pulaski Polka Days, just about a year ago, are flooding back. How happy he was just to spend time with his buddy, Frank, my dad. They laughed and joked. They faux fought about politics, Dick being a Democrat and my father a Republican. They discussed the latest happenings at the Moose Lodge and talked about sports and the weather. My eyes weep at the recollection. It’s so heartbreaking.

And then I think of Steve, Dick’s son. I cannot imagine the pain and agony the family is going through. Dear God, please watch over them and be there for them in this time of grief.

How fleeting is this life! It often feels like an eternity, that we have many, many years to live before we grow old — but then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, a life has passed.

This feeling that life is short, it knocks me off my feet, it takes my breath away. One day our hearts are pumping away. Our lungs fill and empty of air. Our minds recall every memory we have created. And then suddenly, quickly, it all vanishes to the great unknown. Even if some of us are blessed to live a century, our lives seem to end too soon.

I find myself wondering what happens after we die. I wonder if Mr. Jones can see us, from wherever he is? Can he feel our hearts breaking? Does he know how much we adored him?

Heavenly Father, I hope so.

Mr. Jones, wherever you are, please know that we will never forget you and we will miss you so very much.

Thing is, I’m frustrated and angry and sad and I have to get it out. Stuffing all the emotions to the pit of my stomach isn’t healthy, and maybe just getting down to it and letting it all out will allow me to refocus on the situation.

You see, I want another baby. Doug and I have been trying to get pregnant since last fall. Actually we began trying much earlier than that, a year ago really, but we didn’t focus too hard on it because we didn’t want babymaking to become stressful. Add to that my nagging family members, constantly asking when baby number two would arrive and I was in no mood to put extra pressure on myself.

Month after month I would chart my cycles, pee on ovulation sticks, have sex at the “right time” and wait as patiently as possible hoping that when I took a home pregnancy test, positive lines would appear.

And every month as the big fat negative would stare me in the face, mocking me, the sadness would set in. Followed by anger, frustration and a loss of hope.

Oh, how I try to stay positive. Oh, how I try to not let this bring me down. I pretend that it doesn’t hurt deep inside when others announce their pregnancies. Even when I’m genuinely happy for these women, who deserve to have beautiful babies as much as anyone, part me wants to run away and not think about it. Sometimes I don’t want to go through the congratulatory motions because I feel like I’m creating more hurt for myself. Sometimes I want to scream and yell and curse. But I don’t.

I think about how ridiculous it is. I don’t want to be a jealous woman. I’ve blogged about this subject only a few times before and I feel shitty for doing it. I hate ripping open the wound for all to see. But then the anger sets in and makes me think I have the right to express how I feel.

I keep thinking that my “turn” will come again. That it’s not in the cards at this moment in time, but you know what? That pisses me off even more. And there’s no one to talk to about it. People will never tell you, but they are sick of hearing about the poor girl who can’t seem to get pregnant. I’m that girl. And when I confide in some of my pals, they nod and smile, but I can tell they don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about it and it’s me. Yet it’s eating me alive.

And what’s worse is there’s nothing that can be said or done to make me feel better. It’s pathetic, really.

This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with conception issues. It took two years to conceive Dawson. I’ve been diagnosed with every fucking female problem imaginable. Fibroids, PCOS, blah, blah, blah. I’ve been going to the gym to distract myself from this frustration, thinking that losing weight will help. And then I start to cry, because how much weight do I need to lose to get pregnant? Dawson will be four years old in September. Will my kids be ten years apart, because I couldn’t get pregnant?

I feel awful thinking and worrying about this crap. And I know it doesn’t help matters. I know that. I’ve been through this before. It still hurts.

My period is due tomorrow. I jumped the gun and peed on the stick today. Negative. I don’t even feel pregnant. Yet I keep holding on to this small glimmer of hope. Through the tears, I keep hoping. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I just had to get it all out….

(Comments are closed for now. I’m just not ready to hear what everyone is thinking. I’m sure many will think I’m crazy. I probably sound like a nut job. I know that.)

Updated – Comments are now open. After I stopped dwelling on it, I realized that I need to stop blaming myself and it’s okay to let others support me.

So many of you have sent me e-mails sharing your stories. I’ve discovered my story is not unique and some of you have felt the exact same way that I do. It’s okay to let it out. Scream and yell and curse if you need to. Use the comments as your forum. I admit, just writing my post yesterday was therapeutic and I’m somewhat clear headed today.

Thanks to everyone who e-mailed me. Words cannot express how grateful I am for your support. That alone is helping me to remain hopeful. Thank you.

With Memorial Day this weekend, I’ve started planning our entire summer. Trips to Noah’s Ark, Six Flags Great America, church picnics, Brewers games (yes, more baseball!), Polish Fest and of course BlogHerCon. Writing it all down on the calendar makes me realize how quickly summer will be over, and it hasn’t even begun. I know, I shouldn’t jinx it.

Then I remember that my husband turns 40 this July and I’m contemplating birthday parties. My father turns 53 three days after Doug’s birthday and then I wonder if I should do a joint birthday celebration. You know, bake two cakes with one mix.

Thinking about all the things we want to do and places we’d like to visit is exhausting. Perhaps it’s just as fun to stay home and play with Dawson in the backyard. But I feel guilty for not exposing him to many different activities.

And let’s not forget family vacations. Doug and I have never taken a real vacation. We’ve never even been on a honeymoon. Part of me wants to book a trip to Mexico for the two of us, but the homebody I’m married to is hard to convince.

So I wonder, am I crazy to want to pack so much fun into one short summer? What kinds of Summer Activities do you and your family participate in?

“Mommy, I want to do it!” he declares emphatically, and I can’t help but feel abandoned. No longer needed.

It’s difficult to grasp the reality that Dawson is growing up. That he will continue to grow up, and that someday, he’ll leave this house to start his own life, separate from mine.

From the moment he was conceived, Dawson became a part of my life. That precious baby grew inside my womb. Every decision I made revolved around this tiny being that took over my physical and emotional selves. With every kick in the ribs, I grew to love that child and anxiously awaited for the day he’d make his debut in the world.

Then Dawson was born and life has been in fast forward ever since. Except, it never feels as fast when you’re in the thick of motherhood. I remember how difficult it was to wake several times a night to nurse a baby. How desperately I wanted to sleep, how often I wished for my baby to “get a little older” so parenting would “get a little easier”.

I don’t know if it ever gets easier, only better. While my baby was learning and growing, I was, too. The bond between a mother and child is unbreakable, and the moments that Dawson and I share are so precious. I often feel like I’m struggling to hold onto these memories, these moments. I fear that I may forget them, and someday he’ll ask, “What was I like when I was a baby?” I worry that I will not remember, and won’t be able to tell him.

When I look at Dawson now, I keep asking the question, “Where did my baby go? Who is this child in his place?”

This boy is the lover of all things Spongebob and monster trucks. He is a little boy who lives to be outside, loves dirt and swings and slides and the beach. He loves when his mommy reads to him, even if it is the FleetFarm catalog. He wants to grow up and be a race car, just like Lightning McQueen.

He wants to ride his bike until his little legs cannot pedal any longer. He wants to take his dog for a walk “like a big kid” and hold the leash all by himself. He is kind and loving and never forgets to tell his mother he loves her, even in front of others. He finds beauty in even the ugliest of things, like worms and grubs and centipedes. He is curious. He is cautious. He is smart. He is witty. He is the spitting image of his father, but he has my father’s eyes.

It feels like just yesterday that I held baby Dawson in my arms. There are days when I sit next to his “big boy bed” while he is sleeping and try to remember the baby. I gaze at his hands and remember the first moment he grasped my thumb. I kiss his feet and remember his first steps. I kiss his lips and remember the first time he latched on to my breast to nurse. I pat his belly and remember the first time he giggled after giving him a raspberry. He may no longer resemble an infant, but if I look long and hard I can still see my baby boy.

While it’s hard to watch my son grow up, I know it’s inevitable — he’s been gearing up to leave me since the day he was born. This is one of the hardest parts of motherhood. Instead of grieving over the loss of the baby years, I try to focus on the joy of watching him become the little boy he is meant to be. And, most importantly, I savor every “Mommy, I wuv-a you,” because someday I know it will be uncool to tell your mother you love her. That’s one of the hardest parts of growing up.