Dear Archer,
I laid awake while you fell asleep, watching your eyes get heavy and falling into what I hope are beautiful dreams. You fell asleep facing me, our noses so close that I breathed you in, as if you’re oxygen to my lungs.

I laid awake studying your face, the soft blue light from the window caressing your delicate features. The innocence of your rounded cheeks, the way your hair falls lopsided across your forehead (I’m so sorry I don’t know how to cut your hair straight), the way your eyes are my eyes. My favorite feature of myself found itself in you. The eyes of our heritage and part of our origins.

They say that you don’t know love until you have a child and I’m sorry to say that “they” were right. I’m typically rebellious in my views and attempt to refute what’s commonly said but for this one, there is no question: I didn’t know true love until I had you. From the moment I felt you in my belly, to your first gasping breathe, to now, falling asleep in my bed, the bed that has become your bed too. Our bed. I love you so much it hurts breathe.

One day if you decide to have your own children (30 years from now, probably), I know you’ll feel the same. You’ll have love that you don’t know what to do with. Maybe you’ll put it into music, or painting, or into words, like me. I always loved to write from the moment I learned how to. Life’s pulled me in so many different directions but luckily I found myself back here. Writing. Pouring my heart out. The same way you water plants the same way words pour into my soul.

I hope you decide to grow things too: whether they’re plants, or art, I hope you nurture the curiosities of the world and I hope you’re kind too. I mean, I know you’ll be kind. You’re so sweet already. I hope you visit far away places like a citizen of the world. Or maybe in 30 years faraway places will mean a citizen of the galaxy. Whichever it is, whether its mountains, sea, or stars, I hope you go with the fearlessness of our ancestors. You come from a family of pioneers who appreciated the adventure of the unknown. I see that twinkle in your eye already. But no matter how far you go, I hope you’ll write, or call, or hologram, or whatever it is in the future, and you’ll share your adventures with me and I’ll be giddy in anticipation to hear all about them. I’ll ask too many questions, I’m sorry in advance, I am your mom after all and I want to know every single tiny detail.

I didn’t always know if I was meant to be a mom, but I know now that I was meant to be your mom.

Hey, I love you. Sleep soundly little one.

All my love,
Mom