My dear Jude,

It is now 3:30 a.m. on December 9th, 2010. You are on the cusp of your third birthday; bright eyed, smiles abound, you’re speaking in full sentences and have no qualms about expressing your likes and dislikes. You sleep peacefully in our makeshift bedroom at Grandma and Grandpa’s Virginia home overlooking the water. I, on the other hand, awoke concerned that perhaps the reason you were moody today was because you’re dehydrated or because Melissa allowed you to watch too much T.V. or maybe you consumed copious amounts of candy unnoticed. The worries are endless. Let’s face it- in my eyes, nobody will take care of you the way I will.

You can focus for about thirty minutes at a clip. Whether it’s engaging in a game of Legos, riding your tricycle, springing back and forth on your plastic horse or “helping” mommy rake leaves, you perform each task with precision and great concentration. You love a series of books called Fisher Price Little People, or to you better known as “The Jude Books” as they feature a little boy uncanny in appearance to yourself. On each page, the inevitable question arises of, “Where’s Jude?” and you locate “Jude” with your index finger accompanied by an assured, “Jude and Froggy right there!”

You’ve been potty-trained since the summer after we moved from Oregon and I wasn’t working for the first month. We spent much of the summer canoeing across the lake, watching the then young swan family, to the swimming pool where you made friends and enjoyed endless hours outdoors in what would have otherwise been oppressive humidity. Your bronzed skin was envied by many, particularly given the contrast with your baby blues.

You were attacked by a swarm of bumble-bees this summer whose nest under the patio was disrupted by your tricycle riding. As a result, at the pool, upon spying a flying insect you would launch into a Torrets-like panic, screaming, “NO BEE! NO BEE MOMMY! IME OUT BEE! IME OUT!”

Today, in the early chilly mornings as we pass farms, open expanses of land and the occasional cow, horse or tractor before entering the commotion of Fredericksburg, we discuss your family or animals, colors or shapes. You love listing your friends and family. Recently, you memorized everyone’s “real” names. With a little prompting, you’ll recite that Daddy’s name is Matt, Mommy’s name is A-nessa, Mimi’s name is Sus, Poppy’s name is Scurve and Grandma’s name is Janet. We’re still working on Grandpa’s name. We typically call Daddy on the way to Melissa’s house to say good-morning too.

Any worries about only children becoming entirely ego-centric and antisocial are put to rest considering you spend most of your day in the company of four other children, ranging in age 1 to 4. You say, “Baby Jude brother” when discussing the youngest of the quartet, Landen or simply “Baby”. Gabby, the eldest, is “my Gabby”, the recipient of your undying affections. You relish interactions with your peers.

You adjust amazingly well to any situation as long as you feel loved. Whether it’s going with your Daddy for a week out of the month or socializing with “new friends” at a wedding, you’re eager for interaction and quickly befriend both young and old.

Other times, you enjoy relaxing with Mommy, especially following an arduous work week where we’re away from the house sometimes up to 12 hours at a time. I tell myself that it’s worth returning to school for my Master’s degree in spite of the financial hardship, in part because we’ll have more time together on a daily basis. Somehow it just doesn’t feel right to be separated from my best boy from the time the sun rises until the moon is shining brightly amid a midnight sky.

I don’t know how people raise their children having other people essentially raising them. This situation is temporary, I tell myself. If there were any sense of permanence, I would have to reassess my parental obligations against a barometer of what is necessary in life and what is needed to be done.

Guilt about splitting up with your father will not be a motivating factor in how I interact with you. I will do my best to not enable but guide through example. You’ll inevitably be well-loved and cherished. No matter my troubled past with your father and his family, they provide love, stability and unconditional acceptance. Virtues that I cannot say were espoused during my tumultuous childhood after my mom, your grandmother, died when I was five.

I never want you to experience the sting and wounds of feeling inadequate by those who are supposed to buffer all negativity from the outside world. My love for you is not based upon your behavior, my personal whims or the gravitational pull of the Earth- it is unwavering and everlasting. You, in the words of Grandma Janet, are my heart.

When you were born, I desperately believed and naively hoped that my dad, your estranged Grandfather, would fall in love with you as I had, stop drinking and become involved. In retrospect, I now realize that because my dad never felt worthy of love in his own life and daily interactions, he consequentially is incapable of giving of himself beyond a superficial facade. A quote that has stayed with me since age 16 upon reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower, “You accept the love you think you deserve.” In short, you deserve nothing but love and quite frankly I don’t want to subject you to people who are unable to provide you with just that.

Recently, I met up with my friend Alex who lost her mother when she was two to cancer. Because her mother left her no notes, she questioned whether her mother loved her as a baby. My response was that the person she is today is a testament to her mother’s affections. A sense of security and feeling validated, even as a baby and a toddler, ultimately shapes the psyche and development of a person years to come. Children who grow up amid chaos and depravity do not trust enough to smile at a stranger or feel confident in the integrity of their own spirit to demand more out of life than the, at times, short deck of cards dealt to them.

I am far from a perfect mother. Many a time, I have lost my temper and shouted at your in sheer frustration. I have spanked you then cried with along you. You’ve heard me use a smattering of R-rated profanities. There have been a few nights I didn’t brush your teeth before putting you to bed and the occasional stop at McDonalds when I’m just totally drained and unable to even contemplate making dinner (although this rarely occurs living with Grandma and Grandpa since she makes a 5-star dinner on a daily basis). Still, in your nearly three years of existence, I don’t think anyone could accuse me of not loving you with every atom of my being. If anything, in the five years of not being a motherless daughter provided me with a foundation to give love unconditionally.

Had I been raised solely by my step-mother and father, there is no doubt that I would struggle with appropriate ways to show that I love you. When, growing up under their inconsistent and emotionally abusive methodology, and we children a mere after-thought, “love” was manifested in constant criticism, negativity and an arbitrarily inconsistent set of rules easily violated. Your three uncles and I were taught that as long as we remained in Juliette’s good graces, we were free to do as we pleased be it go on an exotic vacation, be treated to a shopping spree or having college tuition paid. However, these tokens of acceptance always came at a price that, I found, typically compromised my sense of integrity and self. As I grew older and more independent, I was able to view the situation from a removed perspective and in doing so, could realize the extent of their damaging parenting.

I write these things now because later, these may be hard conversations to have with you. Likely, I will want to bury these sad years under a layer of happy memories. Rehashing them are painful not just for me as the recipient of the actions, but for me to share with you as my child whom I have tried to shield from such circumstances.

Your mouth slightly ajar resting upon the pillow, arm wrapped around your sippy cup containing water, long legs dangling like an octopus’ tentacles, toes splayed, you epitomize beauty and innocence. I look forward to the years ahead and I can barely comprehend that already three have passed since that blistery visit to the Norwalk aquarium that induced labor. Little did I know what a blessing lay ahead.

I love you,
Mommy.