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I often sit back and reflect on the early days of my son’s life. If I had the chance, I would do things similarly but with understanding and more patience.
Dear son, I am sorry, for not knowing then what I know now. The birth was traumatic because I didn’t know a natural birth was better. I am sorry that I didn’t hold you just a little bit tighter on those inconsolable days and nights. I am sorry that I didn’t see the signs of what you were going through and struggling with as such a tiny, helpless, little person. Most of all, I am sorry that 22 months seemed like long enough to nurse you.
5 years ago, God gave me a son – my second son and a child I desperately desired. He wasn’t quite the baby I imagined. He cried all the time, could not ride in the car. He was rarely consoled by anyone and desired no one but me. I was a train wreck. As if the challenges of being a milky mess for the first time in my life was not enough for me to wrap my head around, my son was just as big of a mess as well. Not just because he was born with sensory issues or because we breastfed past a year, but because that’s who he is.