I love you. I love you so very much. And because I love you so much? I'm also sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't always do my absolute best for you. I'm sorry for the days when I broke, and even with your little concerned face, and patting and rubbing my back to try and make me feel better when you didn't even understand, it was sometimes you who somehow put me back together a bit.
I'm sorry if I ever lay too much on you. I have so much on my plate and I don't know how to let off steam. I try not to cry in front of you, but even though you're not yet 2 years old, you know, somehow, when I'm desperately sad.
You're such an amazing little boy; you blow me away with just being you, every single day. I bust my ass for you, trying to make sure you have the best upbringing and home life I could possibly give you. I try to make sure you have a bit of fun. I try to make sure you eat right. I try to make sure you don't get ill, and when you do get ill, I hope to make it go away and ensure you're strong enough to get through it as fast as possible.
You love your brother Isaac so much, and I love so much when you give him toys to play with, pick up his biscuit if he drops it, show me the sign for tears when he's crying, and look at me with great concern when he's clearly distressed. I never taught you any of that, no one did. You did that yourself. You amaze me. Every day.
I feel like I've failed you sometimes, and you're only two. I still feel like your carer, not your mother. I feel the same with Isaac too. Yet you unconditionally continue to give me hugs and kisses, and they are so, SO sweet. Somehow, yours are better than any I've ever known. And yet still I feel bad for us.
I want you to know that I did try my hardest. All the time. I try to fight for you whenever I can, for whatever reason. I've made so many mistakes, it's untrue. No one tells the mom what to do, the mom has to be the one to give out all the instructions to everyone else. So therefore, I learn by making all the mistakes. I don't want to screw you over. I don't want to make you neurotic like me, fretting ridiculously over every little thing that shouldn't plague your mind.
I hate that I might make you grow up before your time. I hate that thought so much. I don't want to turn you into something horrible; I don't want to take away your childhood. You deserve your childhood so much; I didn't have much of mine. I hope to make it up for you.
You will always be great Noah, you will never be anything less. I just always hope that I can be a part of it, to maybe hope I contributed to it, and that you'll be anywhere near as proud of me as I am of you.
I love you baby boy.