This morning as we played and wrestled in your room, I taught you to use the word 'uncle' when you wanted to surrender. A few minutes later, you deliberately asked me to put you in a tickle-hold. I did what you asked, and you shouted:

"Grandma! GRANDPA! Ahh, MOM! I CAN'T REMEMBER THE WORD I'M SUPPOSED TO SAY!"

A friend sent me a picture of myself when I was in middle school, inciting a storm of memories from a time where I struggled to find my place in the world. I attended a catholic school where the kids were encouraged to behave and look a certain way to a point that they were sometimes punished for not doing so. While most of the students played sports, I played guitar. All of my friends participated in the boy band craze, and I preferred The Smashing Pumpkins. When everyone chose Abercrombie and Fitch for out-of-uniform days, I wore baggy jeans and Vans. 

These things defined me, yet confused and frustrated my family and peers. I didn't dislike soccer or polo shirts, I simply preferred other things. My joy came from writing songs and making websites, and it seemed to cause great disappointment in some of the people I loved.

When my parents agreed to let me switch to a public school, they changed my life. I took it as an opportunity to fit in. I met my best friends there - people who understood my unique style and musical tastes and actually thought it was cool. I stopped dying my hair. While my outfits changed, I held on to the music and hobbies I enjoyed. My friends accepted and appreciated my unique tastes. It was the happy medium for everyone and things began to change for the better.

The reason I'm writing to you about this is because I want to promise you that I will do my best to remain open and supportive of any lifestyle you choose. I hope you find things that inspire you and help define your personality. And if it's not what all your peers are doing, that's not only okay - it's exciting. Be unique and stay true to what you love. Know that you have a family who will support you and help you cope with scrutiny and, god forbid, persecution should it occur. 

People can be mean and hurtful, and I hope you'll accept others in the way my friends accepted me. When you're curious about someone else's eccentricities, I hope you'll remain truly curious, and not harass them. I hope I raise you to be kind and understanding of others. I'll try not to force you to stay in a place that isn't right for you. As your mother, I expect there will be many things I feel are right and best for you. I'm sure I'll be wrong at times. But I'll do everything I can to find and accept those realizations. To see you achieve success and happiness means that I was successful, and I'm confident that we'll get there together. I can't always give you what you want, but I hope to have the ability to understand and give you what you need.

I got home from work late tonight. We ate a late dinner together at the table. We played, smiled and laughed. We watched a movie, and you went to sleep.

I could have been home 15 minutes earlier if I hadn't sat in my car crying after I left the office.

I'm not sure why big realizations come when they do, but a big one happened to come late afternoon at the office today. I started to feel a serious sense of failure. Not in my work, but in my abilities as a parent. This made me feel sad, overwhelmed, angry, confused, and indifferent. I experienced a lot of negative emotions almost at once. I missed you, and I knew your smile would instantly cure my sadness. That's exactly what happened when I walked through the door. But I committed myself to writing this letter to you about it after you went to sleep.

When you were born, I felt a sense of happiness I'd never felt before in my life. And when you started having seizures, I felt a similar sense of sadness. I overanalyzed the situation (as I typically do), and felt I was being punished for a nearly constant distraction during my pregnancy. I realized that I hadn't done much in preparation for motherhood. I didn't take any labor classes, and I abandoned parenting books midway through. School and work were always top of mind. Then you came along, and your unfortunate situation, in my mind, was cosmic revenge. I felt like a failure. 

I promised myself that if we were to survive the situation and your health be restored that I'd never again allow such distraction from you. I promised I'd give up selfishness in the way any good parent would and begin to live my life for you. Looking back on these past three years, I think I could have done much better. 

In all honesty I've done everything I felt I had to in order to provide us all with a great life. In return, you've given me plenty of hugs and kisses, and overwhelming amount of laughter and joy, a whole lot of attitude and serious support in your own unique way. Those are the things I can't wait to come home to experience. Unfortunately I spend a lot of time away from those moments, and I question whether or not I've made you my priority as I wholeheartedly intended to do during that difficult time.

Letters to Tommy has become an unfortunate metaphor for my lack of time for you – a collection of quick photos with captions. Little substance. It hurts me, and it has for awhile - and yet I've done practically nothing to catch up. I'm sorry that my first letter of redemption is this one. But it's important for me to always be as honest with you as possible. I hope you'll do the same with me as you grow up.

I imagine a lot of working parents feel this sense of guilt and failure at some point. The best I can say is I'm going to take all the steps necessary to be not only a better mother, but a better wife, friend, sister, daughter, etc. There will be no kidding myself, or you, or anyone else that this is an easy transition. I'll have to work at it. I'll have to remind myself of my priorities. I'll have to be more organized than I ever though I could be, but it's possible and it will happen. 

I'd apologize, but it's really not that I've made a mistake. Our relationship is good. It could be better. I'll start reflecting on the happy moments more often. But unlike typical memory books where only 'firsts' are recorded, I want you to have both the good and the difficult. I want you to know that I've always taken my role as your mother seriously enough to admit when I feel defeated. I want you to offer you the opportunity to say that I committed myself to something for you and hold me accountable to that. You're too young to read it now, but here it is regardless. Let me be clear that I've never relied on the possibility that you're too young to understand how absent your mother is. I've never hoped that you'll just forget I was busy. I've only hoped to give you more. Today I stop hoping, and start making this change for both of us. The first step is hitting 'post' and making this public.