Hi. Mom here. Whether you will ever read this or not is unknown to me at this point. If you do, I hope that you won't be too embarrassed, in case I come across as maudlin or overly emotional. But then, by the time you're old enough to read this, you'll understand that that's just how I am at times.
First, let me tell you that I love you. Hopefully you know this, and you'll never seriously question it. But I feel as though I can't say it enough.
You are such a blessing, to both your father and I. We were so surprised when we found out that you would be making your way into the world, the day after your dad's birthday. I sometimes wonder if that's why you've always been Daddy's boy - because you were his belated birthday present.
I knew from the beginning you'd be a boy. Don't ask me how, call it mother's intuition or a guess. Either way, I just knew. We had your name picked out at a very early point. Matthew, for a dear friend of mine, and Elliott, for your late uncle Chad.
From the moment you made that test show positive, your father and I have been determined to give you the best life possible. At times, that meant working more than one job. Believe me when I tell you that leaving you to go to work was one of the hardest and most emotionally wracking experiences of my life. The joy of watching your face light up when we were able to buy you new toys paled in comparison to the joy on your face when I came home. I spent the first five months of post-baby employment bawling behind the wheel as I drove to my job, each mile between us feeling like ten, each minute spent away from you an eternity. I can't count how many verbal warnings I got from understanding police officers for speeding on the way home, trying to get back to you sooner.
You grew, you crept, crawled, and learned to walk. Your speech was delayed, but your vocabulary seems to nearly double daily. Your personality is your own, so different from mine and your father's and your younger brother's, yet with a few similarities here and there. Like your dad, you seem to prefer going off and doing your own thing to playing with others; however, you do play very well with Jonah and with your cousins Jessie, Jadyn, and Tegyn. You get your stubborn independence from your father and I, and I hold myself (the one responsible for your Irish heritage) solely responsible for your temper. My son, I was the same way at your age.
Your intelligence also comes from us both. You never fail to astound us with the rapidity at which you learn new games, make new associations, develop new tastes and preferences, and make it clear with your limited vocabulary (so far) your wants and needs. You mastered your dad's iPhone games easily, and soon were sending me text messages while I was at work, most of which I've locked so that they cannot be accidentally deleted. You can read the letters of the alphabet, count to 10, and identify all the primary and secondary colors. You're potty-training at a rapid rate, and surprisingly, you've nearly mastered the step that takes most other kids the longest.
Your favorite movie at the moment is Pixar's "Cars." We watch it repeatedly, every day. It is the first movie where you've shown a connection to the characters - laughing at the funny parts, looking distressed at the worrisome ones.
You love getting into the kitchen and experimenting with whatever you find. How much food will fit in the cats' dish? Would the cats prefer to drink Mom's french vanilla coffeemate or water? Would they prefer Dad's Irish cream coffeemate to Mom's? Does cocoa powder taste like chocolate? (Oh, you were heartbroken and nauseated when you discovered that no, it does not.) What happens if you mix maseca (tortilla mix), raw scrambled eggs, and popping oil together? You've even shown an urge to make me happy in the morning in your kitchen expeditions. After all, you've watched me make coffee nearly every morning since we brought you home from the hospital, you know the steps quite well. I laughed so hard the morning I got up and saw that you'd placed the can of coffee, a single paper filter, and a cup of water on the floor of the popcorn maker, and that you were squatting in front of it, watching it intently, no doubt waiting for the coffee to brew.
You've already learned about manners, and use them quite nicely on most occasions. I took you to the grocery store about a month ago, and when that nice man let us cut ahead of him in line, you ever-so-sweetly said "Tanks!" with no prompting whatsoever. You also use "please" very well, with very little prompting.
Matthew, every time I look at you, I feel as though my heart really should have exploded by now, with pride and love.
It's true you frustrate me at times, with stubborn insistence (you see, I'm as stubborn as you are), with your tears of frustration when I won't let you do something that could possibly bring you illness or harm (like when you wanted to go play outside in a snowstorm wearing only a pull-up diaper). But, then, I wouldn't care if I didn't love you. It's because I love you that I do my very best to keep you safe and healthy.
You were such a good baby, and you were such a good toddler. When you turn three, you'll be a pre-schooler, and you will hopefully be starting Head Start in September, provided you're fully potty-trained. I look forward to this - new friends for you, more education, a new experience to broaden your world - and at the same time I dread it a bit, because it brings you that much closer to growing up and moving out.
My son, I look across the living room at you now, sitting quietly on the couch, playing bowling on your dad's phone, and I feel a bit choked up at how fast you're growing, and how fast the past three years have flown by. I see so much of your dad in you - your build, your complexion, your facial features, the shape of your eyes, and definitely your feet (those are beyond a doubt Gatica feet) - but there are bits of me there too - your hazel eyes, your red-brown hair, the shape of your smile and the dimple in your chin.
You are my eldest, my first-born son, the first visible, tangible proof of the love that your father and I shared then and share now. The first time I looked into your eyes was the first time I felt, beyond a doubt, that there is a greater love in the universe than what a person shares with their siblings, friends, or partners. I saw myself reflected in your newborn eyes, only it wasn't me as I knew myself. It was "MOTHER," it was love, and I had to fight not to cry at how I felt that, for the first time ever, life had a purpose other than the ones I'd grown used to in my 24 years of life. All the doubts I'd felt during my pregnancy with you - would I be a good mother, was I capable of raising a child, was I really going to be able to do this - slipped away. I cuddled you close and smiled at you, smiled at your dad, at the three of your grandparents (my mom and dad and your dad's mom) who were there in the room with us, and I knew beyond a doubt that I was going to be able to do this, that you were meant for your dad and I, and that no one would be able to love you the way we do.
Happy birthday, Matthew Elliott.
I love you, son.
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