I know you are not a baby anymore, but you will always be my baby. I know you do not remember your birth into this world, but I will never forget it. You, my dear are a miracle. Every day you have had on this Earth is a gift, and I am so aware of that. I can remember the nurses saying they saw the meconium and your dad saying "Oh, it's a punk rock baby" (this was because your hair was green.) I can remember the fear when they instantly brought you behind a curtain, and realizing there were ten more doctors in the room than previous. I can still feel the anxiety of not hearing that precious first cry. You were brought to me after what seemed like hours, but was really only a few minutes, and this new doctor told me to "hug your baby and give him a kiss." You briefly opened your eyes and looked at me and I instantly fell in love with you, and felt such a strong sense of fight in myself for you. The doctor returned a few minutes later and asked everyone to leave the room so he could speak with your dad and me. His exact words were, "You have a very sick baby" and then went on to describe the damage caused by the meconium aspiration and that an abulence was on the way to take you to a different hospital. My heart broke into a million pieces. I felt so helpless in that moment. The only thing I could do was will you to survive and try to send you my love and find the stregth to find confidence in the hands that would heal you. It is amazing to me still that in a few short minutes I could feel an indescribable bond to you. I saw you briefly one more time when we were told about your ambulence ride and what would occur at Children's. The doctors took polaroid pictures of you for me to look at. Daddy rode with you to the hospital, in what he will say was the scariest ride of his life. He stayed with you until it was very late, and came back to me with pictures of you and told me everything that was happening. You had your own room in the NICU, and I discharged myself bright and early in the morning to stay be with you.
Nate, you were, and are, such a fighter. You only got better, never failing, and when you looked at me, I had an innate sense that you were the one reassuring me that things would be okay. You eventually were transferred back to Winchester, where you were born to stay another week and finish your medicine. When we brought you home, it was like you were a glass egg, tiny, breakable, and yet put in our care. I was so worried about you, but you, being the strong boy you are, always pushed forward, never letting any obstacle stand in your way. You went through your rough patch, not gaining weight, pneumonia every month or so, tested for every disease and condition under the sun, but again, you remained SO STRONG. I couldn't help but gain strength from you.
Now here you are, turning five years old. One year away from kindergarten, and you know all your letters, how to write, and just starting to read. I watch you ride your bike, and play sports, and dance, always full of life. I never fail to see that poor, sick, sweet baby boy with all those tubes and bells and whistles. I am without words to tell you how much my heart swells to know how ALIVE and WONDERFUL you are.
Nate you are truly one of a kind. You love to tell us jokes at the dinner table, and perform skits and dances, you warm our hearts with your loving words and giant hugs. You constantly tell us how much you love us, and we feel that love, Nate.
I am so proud of you. You are meant to be. You have been through so much in your life. There is no doubt in my mind that you can accomplish whatever you set out to do in this life. You are kind, thoughtful, witty, strong and genuine. I love you so very much my sweet baby Nate.
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