Are you kidding me right now? You’re 14? That’s just crazy.

Your birth was terrifying. I went to the hospital for a routine ultrasound and you arrived the next day, 10 weeks too soon. You were all of 2 lbs. 9 oz. and so small that I couldn’t fathom you would ever be as big as you are now. I still worry about you a lot, but nothing like how I worried back then.

Here you are with the lamb that watched over you for the five weeks you spent in the hospital. This was a momentous occasion, because you had reached 3 lbs. For the record, that is pretty much no weight at all. I can gain 3 lbs. if I eat too many tortilla chips.

People talk so much about how far your brother has come, but you are a miracle too. I guess you’ve always made it look so easy. You make a lot of things look easy. Mostly reading books. And, math. And, softball. And, organization. And, a lot of other things for which you could give me lessons.

I am somewhere BEYOND proud of you for how far you have come from that teeny, tiny preemie. I was about to say that you are an amazing kid, but you’re not really a kid anymore. It makes my heart hurt to say that, but I’ll be okay. Just don’t talk about going away to college or I’ll burst into tears. Fair warning.

Now, that lamb is dwarfed by your 14 year old self. See it? Up there by your head? It’s barely visible and yes, that’s the same lamb. Also the same person, but in a bigger bed and with less monitors and hospital bills.

There is something about you, though, that makes me NOT look back. With you, I tend to look forward. You have so much to offer this world and I can’t wait to see where you go and what you do. I have never been more sure of anything than I am of the fact that you can conquer anything to which you set your mind.

Except for how much I love you. I’m sure of that too.

Happy birthday, Goose. I’m so glad you were born.

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Dear Mr. Personal Trainer,

I’m coming in to see you today after six months of, mostly, sitting on my hind end. And, by mostly I mean completely. I understand that you want to know my history and goals, so here goes.

I maintained a normal weight until just after my 26th birthday. Then I got married, had a high-stress career, renovated a house, had a preemie baby and blamed every pound I gained on each of those things. I had no time and no energy.

Then I had another baby and he was um…kind of difficult…even if I had had the time and energy, I would have taken it and put it into making him better, stronger, healthier, smarter and more typical. It turns out that ten years and ten surgeries later I realize that I like him just the way he is, which is sickly, tiny and kind of quirky, but that’s a whole different letter.

How I got here is beside the point; it’s where I want to go that matters. Eight months ago my high cholesterol sent me into the waiting arms of a vegan diet. Now I have a relationship with beans that I never thought possible. Also, my cholesterol dropped 160 points in three months. Without meds. Me and beans? We kind of love each other.

I joined your gym in January and started working out with a trainer and spent hours there each week. But, then the trainer got moved to another position and I got whooping cough, then summer came and that’s my SUPER busy season at the job I love and am passionate about. I had a hard time peeling myself away from my computer screen. And, once again, as I have countless times over the last decade, I fell into a vicious cycle of excuses.

I want this bad. I want good health, a long life and I want to be strong again. I wouldn’t mind if you could throw in some quickness and good balance, but if you could just get me to a point where it’s not a nightmare to get dressed each day, that would be great.

I take Zoloft and Ambien (see aforementioned paragraphs mentioning kids) and I know the anti-anxiety meds aren’t conducive to weight loss, but they also help me sit and watch mindless TV like Wheel of Fortune without grinding my teeth and clenching every muscle in my body. If you asked me whether I wanted to go back to feeling like I was always on the verge of a panic attack or be fat, I would chose the fatness. So, we have to work around that.

I like beer. A lot. I like chocolate. A lot. I also like vegetables and feel strong enough about my health to become a vegan and stick to that completely. But, please don’t ask me to give up beer. Or chocolate. Or coffee.

I would love to run a half marathon someday, but only a half because I think a full marathon is crazy. Plus I have asthma, so I don’t even think full marathons are allowed. Just sayin’. Oh, and I’m 41. FORTY-ONE, which is to say that I feel very middle-aged and if I don’t turn this around FOR REAL this time, I won’t ever do it.

I still have a whole life to live and so many places I want to go and a zillion things I want to do, but I won’t do any of them happily unless I can fix myself and I don’t know how to do that. I want you to help me get to a point where I can stop hating myself.

So, there you go.

No pressure.

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Ten?

Give me a minute to wrap my head around that.

To be honest, it’s hard to wrap your head around something when you’ve spent the last ten years spinning about. Half the time, I haven’t even known where my head is.

The decade since you were born has been the longest, most stress-filled quarter of my life. I’ve watched you get poked, prodded and wheeled away from me to an operating room over and over again. I’ve seen you choke and vomit so many times, it would be impossible to count. And, there were times that we saw so many different doctors and therapists that I felt like you were a pinball; bounced here and there, from one cold stethoscope to another.

Would I change all of that if I could? Yes. In a heartbeat. Would I change the person you are because of it? Never.

Sure, I wish things were easier for you. I wish that you had more friends. I wish open-heart surgery wasn’t looming over your head. I wish that you didn’t need hearing aids, or sensory cushions at school, and that your small stature wouldn’t limit you.

But, if your life had been easy then you would just be a typical kid. You wouldn’t be the funny, unpredictable, clever, kind, insightful child you are now. Every needle, every analysis, every illness and every remedy made you who you are. And, you are somewhere we never thought you would be.

You are ten.

Happy Birthday to my amazing boy.

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I have a friend who told me that her nine year old son’s recent growth spurt has her mourning the loss of her little boy. After she mentioned it, I picked up my glass (the one that was sitting there half-full) and I realized that one of the benefits of having a child who is almost ten, but who is the size of a kindergartner, is that he still fits in my lap.

Yesterday morning, my son climbed into a chair with me and sprawled out across my legs. While I sipped coffee and scanned the newspaper, he reclined his head against my shoulder and read the comics. We sat like that for a while. I don’t know how long he had been staring up at me when I finally noticed.

I smiled and gave him a kiss on the top of his head and asked, “Are you finished with the comics?”

He nodded and said, “Yeah.”

Then I looked in to my coffee cup and saw it was half-empty as he remarked, “Oh, and Mom? You have really big nostrils.”

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