When my first son was about 18 months old, we moved him to a “big boy bed” in the room across the hall from where he had been sleeping his whole little life. I was already super pregnant with his brother and we needed to free the crib up for the newcomer—without making it seem like this mysterious usurper was stealing the spotlight AND the bed from my first son. So we layered the walls in the “new room” with Cars:The Movie and Wolfpack decals, populated it with new furniture and bedding, and began the long process of letting him “cry it out” at the door when he realized he could get OUT of his new sleeping arrangements independently. We shut the door to his old room and initiated an out-of-sight-out-of-mind policy until the new baby came. In the week before the new baby’s birth, I went in to brush the dust off a few times and found myself sitting in the glider that I’d used for nursing, and later, for rocking my son to sleep—which I often did, even though EVERYONE tells you not to. The day before my scheduled c-section, with my pregnant feet up on that glider's ottoman, I reflected tearfully on what this room had been to my first son and myself—and then wrote the following letter to him.
Dear Son,
The first time I held you in this chair, you were so tiny that I had to prop you up with pillows to feed you and could rest your whole body on the ottoman when you were done. Until recently, I spent most of your life in this chair, watching the seasons change 6 times through the constantly rotating lens of your bedtime hour--the late light of two summers seeping and sinking through the shades, the sleepy twilight of one spring and two falls, and the quiet early dark of two winters--as I fed you, rocked you to sleep, or just held you until you were tired enough to lie down.
By your last night in this chair, your arms extended to the arm rests, your feet dangled from the edge of the seat, and you used real words to tell me you were ready for bed. Since then, you've been falling asleep in a new bed, in a new room that's gradually become yours. Last night, Daddy gave you a bath like he's done almost every night of your life. Then he read you a story, as you giggled and smiled--so little, but so big--in that new bed that's not so new to you anymore. Then I sat next to you in the dark until you finally went to sleep.
Though you'll always be our baby, our little boy--tomorrow and forever after, you'll be big: the big brother, the big boy--which is both happy and sad. We've learned so much from you. You have so much to teach a little person, and we are so happy to give you the blessing of a brother. We know that you may struggle at times to share toys, attention, and glory with him, but we hope that you'll easily share all the love and laughter you've given us, that you'll be good friends your whole life, and that you'll always feel how special it is to have a brother--someone who's part of you in a way that no one else will ever be.
By the time you're old enough to read this, you won't need us to bathe you or watch over you until you fall asleep each night. But just know that we did. And that we loved it and looked forward to it every day--just as we look forward every day to the new things you'll do, even if each new thing means you need us a little less all the time.
Because we love you. And we will never stop needing to be your mommy and daddy, no matter how "big" you are.
Love,
Us
Dear Son,
The first time I held you in this chair, you were so tiny that I had to prop you up with pillows to feed you and could rest your whole body on the ottoman when you were done. Until recently, I spent most of your life in this chair, watching the seasons change 6 times through the constantly rotating lens of your bedtime hour--the late light of two summers seeping and sinking through the shades, the sleepy twilight of one spring and two falls, and the quiet early dark of two winters--as I fed you, rocked you to sleep, or just held you until you were tired enough to lie down.
By your last night in this chair, your arms extended to the arm rests, your feet dangled from the edge of the seat, and you used real words to tell me you were ready for bed. Since then, you've been falling asleep in a new bed, in a new room that's gradually become yours. Last night, Daddy gave you a bath like he's done almost every night of your life. Then he read you a story, as you giggled and smiled--so little, but so big--in that new bed that's not so new to you anymore. Then I sat next to you in the dark until you finally went to sleep.
Though you'll always be our baby, our little boy--tomorrow and forever after, you'll be big: the big brother, the big boy--which is both happy and sad. We've learned so much from you. You have so much to teach a little person, and we are so happy to give you the blessing of a brother. We know that you may struggle at times to share toys, attention, and glory with him, but we hope that you'll easily share all the love and laughter you've given us, that you'll be good friends your whole life, and that you'll always feel how special it is to have a brother--someone who's part of you in a way that no one else will ever be.
By the time you're old enough to read this, you won't need us to bathe you or watch over you until you fall asleep each night. But just know that we did. And that we loved it and looked forward to it every day--just as we look forward every day to the new things you'll do, even if each new thing means you need us a little less all the time.
Because we love you. And we will never stop needing to be your mommy and daddy, no matter how "big" you are.
Love,
Us
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