A Letter to Our Second Born.

Dear Son, As I was being transferred to the hospital to deliver you, my second child, it occurred to me how it wasn’t that long ago that we were attending a funeral. Yes, it wasn’t much before you were born. My sister-in-law, your auntie, lost a baby girl to SIDS, sudden infant death syndrome.

It was so painful. Maybe more so because I was pregnant. You have no idea that can happen, and then it does. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is so devastating for the entire family.

It really does put a damper on the excitement of expecting a baby. Somehow, the fact that she was a twin helped. Twin girls. What a miracle that is. I was told because there are so many twins in the family, that I could have had twins.

Early on, it was revealed that I was expecting one child. No twins, although the doctor who was to deliver you didn’t know that and thought that perhaps I could be having twins and wanted an x-ray. My doctor was unavailable, so she was a stand-in.

“Multiple heartbeats,” she said as she held the stethoscope to my midsection.

It was decided that I would transfer to a town about 30 minutes down the road to give birth, where there was a pediatric physician.

You were born in that hospital, and the pediatric physician was a stand-up comedian in the delivery room. He asked your dad if he was okay. He was looking sick as the doctor was beginning to stitch me up.

The doctor said he does a couple of these a day, so it is nothing to him, but some husbands get a little weak in the knees. Then the doctor suggested your dad may want to wait outside until he finished the stitches part.

It wasn’t too much later that I was holding you, and it was such a glorious feeling.

A few thoughts occurred to me then; first, you were such a big baby. Second, 10 pounds, six ounces is large. Third, you are my last baby, or the next would weigh 13 pounds, as your sister weighed one ounce shy of 9 pounds. And finally, you won’t be wearing newborn clothing, as I think it cuts off at 9 pounds.

As I leaned in to tell you this, you smiled. I know babies aren’t supposed to smile. I know you smiled up at me, even though they say it is gas.

Your father was so happy. You were healthy, and he had waited for his children for too many years, he would say. He was only 30, but he thought 30 was old. And a boy to name after our fathers was something so special.

Considering my father was then deceased, he would have loved that we named you Patrick. Your Grandpa Yank loved you and introduced you to everyone as Alvin Patrick. I never corrected him, as I knew that he would have preferred that be your real name.

He was so proud of you, and he was a great grandpa to both you and your sister.

I remember thinking after you were born how life was now complete. The way you looked at me was so precious. Everything about you is perfect, I thought. There are no children more perfect than you and your sister. How did we get so lucky to have such beautiful children?

I then remembered an apology I needed to make to your grandma. Grandma Joyce was not welcome at the birth after she almost fainted in the labor room with your sister. She was not told you were coming because of that.

I wouldn’t worry about her and deal with the pain of natural childbirth at the same time. Then, after I thought about it, I decided she would probably thank me.

Please know that when you were born, you were wanted and loved and that your parents and grandparents were all ecstatic! The connection was immediate between you and all of us, as I know it was for you and your little girl!

Love always, Your Mother

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First published in What Is Love To You? on Medium