Last night, my wife and I attended the fourth session of PRIDE. PRIDE stands for Parent Resources for Information, Development, and Education. We are required to complete the PRIDE class in order to be eligible to foster/adopt a child. Tomorrow, we meet with our fertility doctor again. We have one attempt left at a biological child. One way or the other, our son will be a “big brother” by this time next year, and we will have another child to love.

I love being a parent – a mom. Obviously, I love my son. He is four now, and he is smart, funny, confident, sweet, and super-cute. He loves to cuddle and give kisses. He loves music. He excels at gymnastics and talks of being a Ninja Warrior when he grows up. I love his malapropisms, like “stunk” for “skunk” and “clause” for “pause.” I love his cinnamon roll belly button and the way he loves for us to try to “eat” it.  I love the sound of his giggles and the way he grabs my face up in both his little hands and scream-growls things at me (in a funny way – not in a mean way). I love that he’s “all boy” but will still put on a pink boa and a princess crown and let you paint his nails. I love his generosity, the way he shares with us and other kids. I love how much he loves to help everyone with everything.  And on and on I could go.

I love my son, but I also love what being a parent has done for me. It has healed a lifetime of hurt. My mother was an awful, bitter woman. She was negligent and sometimes cruel. She constantly compared me to my cousins who were prettier or better dancers or more loving and obedient. I never felt truly, unconditionally loved by her. As a child, I, as children do, blamed myself. I knew I must be deeply flawed for my own mother, who should love me best, to allow her lover to abuse me. I knew I must be simply unlovable. How could anyone else love me if my own mother didn’t? While years of therapy and the love and support of my sister and my wife helped me realize that I wasn’t inherently unlovable, I didn’t really feel the truth of that until my son was born. With each passing day, it became more and more apparent how much he adored me. Of course, I adored him and, really, it was the inevitability of our mutual adoration that enabled me to truly believe that the flaw was my mother’s – not mine.

My son makes me feel lovable AND helps me to love myself. He loves me. He doesn’t care that I’m fat or I have crooked teeth. He loves me. He doesn’t care that I’m lazy or I have obsessive thoughts. He loves me, regardless of my struggles with depression. He loves and accepts me just as I am, and he helps me remember that I should do the same.

Yes, I love being a parent and desperately want another child (or two?) to watch grow and blossom and become a fully-formed person with feelings and thoughts and personality all her own. But I also want to give my son the gift of a sibling. My sister is my best friend, and I feel blessed to have her in my life. So a sibling is the least I could do for my son for all he’s done for me. Wait – no. A sibling is the BEST I can do.