Dear Cason, Thank you

Dear Cason---

I’m not sure my words can do justice in expressing all that I feel for you, and all that I have to thank you for. However, since I was never one to back down from a challenge, I’ll give it my best shot.

The year you were born, 2016, was not my favorite year. The day that I learned you were with us, that you were growing inside of your mom, was a good day—one of my very favorite days of 2016, all because of you. Also, the day you were born was one of my top days ever. It was the in-between, buddy—those in-between days were pretty sketchy. 

I spent a lot of 2016 feeling sad. It was the type of sadness that I had a hard time understanding, because it didn’t make sense to me. I could look at my life and see that I had everything I’d ever wanted, and still, I cried every single day. I felt lost. Nothing felt right. But, because the sadness defied logic, I went on for a long time pretending that it wasn’t there. Turns out, pretending that something isn’t there doesn’t make it actually not there. Looking away from something doesn’t help it to go away.

Naming things, facing things—now there's a place to start. Once I finally admitted to myself that I was depressed—and not just a little bit, we're talking really, really depressed— I could do something about it. Depression blows, kiddo. I hope you never get it. If you ever do, it’s okay—about one out of every two Americans has a mental health problem at some point in their lifespan, and the most common bugger is depression. I know, what a raw deal. Anyway, at least you know who to talk to if it happens to you. (Note: That’s me. I’ll help you figure it out.)

I got some help for the depression, and I started to feel better. I made some decisions about what I wanted for myself, and that helped me to feel better too. By December fifth, the day you joined us in this world, I was well on the road to recovery. I wasn’t quite where I wanted to be, but I was feeling a lot more like me again. 

You were born on a Monday, which is my writing day. At 8:30 AM, the first exciting thing happened: I hit my 2016 fiction-writing goal of 80,000 words, a goal that I didn't know if I'd be able to reach. It felt like a victory over depression to have done this. At 9 AM, the second awesome thing happened: I picked up my phone and saw that I had a message from your dad, alerting me that you were on your way! I don’t know when I’ve last had such a moving, gratifying morning. I’ll never forget it: the smell of coffee, the joyous pounding of my heart as I typed the sentence that brought me to my goal, the way that my feet danced a silly jig under the table at the Mill when I got your dad's text, the dirty look the dude at the next table shot me because I was making too much noise.

And yet, even starting the day off with that kind of excitement didn’t prepare me for meeting you later that day. Something happened at the moment that I first saw your chubby cheeks and soft blonde hair. Something moved and shifted inside of me, like when marbles in a jar that have come to rest in a precarious position get bumped and suddenly all fall into a more secure place. My feet felt firmly anchored to the ground for the first time in at least a year, maybe longer.

I don’t know what you did to me, Cason, but I sure am grateful that you did it.

Maybe it was your innocence, your newness, the idea that you have a whole big life in front of you to live. This feels hopeful to me, the idea of you experiencing things for the first time, learning about our world, making it your own. Maybe I was able to see the world through your eyes, and I liked what I saw.

Maybe it was the dreams that came true when you came into the world. You were (and are) so very wanted. You made parents out of two of my favorite people in the world. You made thrice grandparents out of two of my other favorites. As for me, I had wanted to be an aunt so badly I could taste it. It was one of my not-so-secret secret wishes for 2016. (I even wrote it in my YearCompass year planning guide in January 2016—and choosing goals and wishes that I can’t control is NOT something I usually do.) I might be shortsighted, but I don’t think I wanted it for me. I wanted it for my brother, and for my sister-in-law, who I knew were going to be loving, doting parents. (And true to form, they are. As you know.)

Maybe it was the idea that your presence has given me an added purpose in life: to support your parents, to love and care for you. To let you do things at my house that your parents won’t let you do at theirs. (How long until you can eat ice cream? Like, maybe one more month? Haha. Don’t tell your mom I said that.) Maybe I’ll take you to your first R-rated movie. Maybe I’ll drive you home the first time you do something stupid in your teenage years. I guess we’ve got a few years to figure these things out. Let's start with the ice cream thing, though. (Shh. Seriously, your mom will kill me if she finds out.)

Every week since you’ve been here on Earth, I’ve gotten better and better. Your remind me that even though life is hard and painful, in some ways it’s simple and good. Your facial expressions and noises make me laugh. This weekend you smiled a great big smile at me and melted my heart. One time you peed all over me, and weirdly even that brought me a twisted kind of joy— hold on, let me explain, because I know that sounds weird. It happened while you were sleeping on my chest, and I was sleeping too, and we were both so soundly out that not even pee woke us up. It was nice to have slept that soundly, and to have been trusted that completely, pee and all.

I mean, no pressure here, buddy. I don’t expect you to be the lifelong key to my happiness or anything like that. Other stuff in my life makes a big difference. Your cousins Evie and Jonah bring me joy every day, and so does your uncle Jeb.  Your grandma and grandpa dole out healthy doses of unconditional love and unwavering support. (You’ll see.) And your parents are dear to me. They’re my best friends and they always have my back.

Importantly, I’ve learned even with the support of all of my family and friends, I’ve ultimately got to take care of myself, too. I’ve got to set limits. I’ve got to say “no” sometimes and “yes” at other times (a lot of times I mess up when I should be saying what. Perennial issue. Probably won’t be resolved by the time you read this, but I’m working on it). I need time to be alone, to think and to write and to exercise and to find my center. I also need time to be goofy with my friends. I’m doing all of that now, too, and it all helps.

Yet, I know that someday, when I look back on 2016 and all that came with it, I will credit you, Cason, with helping me to get unlost, with helping me to plant my feet firmly on the ground again. And all you had to do is show up. I imagine there’s no way I can ever repay you for this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t spend the rest of my life trying.

With so much love,

Aunt Allison