Dear Cayson

Dear Cayson,

My dear, sweet, kind hearted boy, I cannot believe you are 7 years old today.

I remember your birth like it was yesterday. You were quite the stubborn one, as I had to be induced. We were supposed to go to the hospital at midnight. They called and we had to wait until 5 in the morning. You were perfectly content in there under my protection. We started inducing around 8 AM. The contractions were painful. And, I will admit that I am not good with pain and I was terrified. I got an epidural. After that, I bounced on a yoga ball. I rolled around in the bed. I did everything they told me too and yet you, you still weren’t ready.

The doctor came in and broke my water…that was something I will spare the details on for you. Even after that, you still weren’t ready. Things got a little scary when the nurses kept coming in the room and looking at the fetal monitor and walking out. I could see the worry in their eyes. Every time I was contracting, they came in and looked at the monitor and then walked out. After several times of that happening, I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know what it was.

A little while later, the Doctor came in. He wasn’t supposed to be there yet. I remember the absolute gut wrenching, rip-your-heart-from-your-chest feeling that I wasn’t going to be taking you home. And I lost it. The Doctor said your heart rate was dropping pretty low with each contraction and that we were doing an emergency C-section. I swear within 10 minutes, I was prepped and on my way to the OR. Your dad had to change into purple scrubs and then he followed us in. I prayed for you to be safe and healthy.

I was awake through all of it. I remember 2 things before the Doc lifted you up and showed you to us. I remember shivering. Uncontrollable shivering. And I remember your Dad. He was there with me, beside me, every second. I pray you will be that person for your wife some day.

You were the picture of perfection. 8 lbs and 11.8 oz of perfection. You still are, sweet boy. They whisked you away after I saw you for a minute and Daddy went with you. I was jealous that it wasn’t me but then I realized how absolutely lucky we were to have you. You completed our family in a way we didn’t understand until much later. I didn’t get to hold you for what felt like forever. I laid on that table while they closed me up with tears streaming down my face.

When I finally got to hold you, my goodness, when I finally got to hold you, I thought my heart would explode out of my chest.

Brenly came to the hospital to meet you the next day. She wasn’t quite 2 yet and autism wasn’t part of our world. She was way more interested in all the things around the room than she was in you.

We spent 3 days in the hospital with you before going home. I was nervous and scared. How in the world was I going to be able to take care of 2 under 2, especially after a C-section?

Did you know we spent the first 4 months of your life sleeping in the recliner? Just me and you. Daddy offered to sleep there with you but I almost always told him I would do it. You had acid reflux so bad we couldn’t lay you down without you throwing up. So I slept there with you, taking in your fresh baby scent and squishy little body. You looked just like your Daddy and still do. I treasure those sleepless nights.

Things weren’t complicated yet.

A year later, autism came into our lives.

Buddy, the guilt that washes over me when I think about all the times we had to put things off for you because Brenly had an appointment or therapy or a meltdown is not something I will ever be able to forgive myself for. I am so sorry. I should have been better for you.

I promise I will spend the rest of my life being better for you, the way you are for me. I promise I will listen to you. I promise to make you feel special, the way you deserve. I promise you can always tell me anything, even if it hurts.

I see you. I hear you. Always.

Autism took a lot of things from you those first few years. It’s not your fault. It’s not Brenly’s fault. It just is.

I honestly didn’t know if you and Brenly would ever have a relationship, like a true brother-sister relationship.

It didn’t take long for you to show me that I didn’t need to worry. You followed her around everywhere she went. She may not have liked it, but you weren’t going to give up on her. To this day, you haven’t given up on her. I pray you never do.

You are her biggest cheerleader.

You hold her hand when she needs it.

You play with her every time she asks you to.

When she cries, you cry.

When she gets hurt, you are right there by her side.

When she has a meltdown and hits you, you forgive instantly.

And then you hug her.

You understand her.

You know her triggers.

You know her fears.

You protect her.

You are her safe place.

You know how to love her.

And you do it fiercely.

I know you didn’t ask to be a special needs sibling. I’m sorry it’s hard sometimes. But, this life that was chosen for you has turned you into the sweetest, most empathetic incredible little boy.

I am so proud to be your Mommy.

You don’t know it, but you saved me. You did it just by being you. When I fell into that pit of despair after Brenly’s diagnosis, it was you who saved me. Your sweet face pulled me out of that darkness. You brought me back to life. I am eternally grateful. And I hope someday you truly understand the depth of my love and my gratitude.

I’m sad you are growing up so fast but I can’t wait to see the kind of man you become.

You want to be a firefighter when you grow up. Your second choice is a police officer. You just want to help people because that is who you are.

Whatever you decide to do, whoever you become, I hope you keep that kind heart. You truly are just like your dad.

I hope you always look out for your sister. She needs you.

I hope you always want to snuggle with me. I need you too.

I hope you are always caring like Grandpa Carol. He adored you.

And I hope all your dreams come true. You deserve it.

Happy birthday to the boy who made our family complete, to the boy who saved me.

I love you more than you will ever know,

Mommy