First Love

You are my first born, my first love. You are 15 today, and the emotion of that makes my throat so tight I can hardly stand it.

We've learned everything together. You've pulled me through, and I've pulled you through.

I actually believed I knew what love was, before you were born.

There needs to be a new word invented, for the ferociousness of the feeling I felt for you, when I held you in my arms for the very first time. And saw your face for the very first time. I literally gasped, your eyes were so blue. It was like one of those camera shots, where everything else was out of focus, and only one thing stood sharp and clear and in the center: you.

I have clapped at every first that you brought my way. Everything with you has been new, fresh, wonderful. It's a trail of firsts, that we've both cut together. I marvel at all of it, how could I not?

It's been wondrous and exciting and scary and shaky.

There is a reason that firstborn children are leaders, and doers, and shining stars: because they were the first ones in their parent's sky.

I love you, Alexander....and my voice will crack if I attempt to tell you more than that today.

I love you. And you might taste the tears that fell silently on your sandwich this morning while I packed the lunch of my firstborn son.




Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!
How I love you, Alexander.