My Emma,
You are 183 days old. 26 weeks. 6 months. I want to say it in a way that makes you sound the newest, because time is passing too swiftly, blowing by me and leaving me bewildered. I brought you home last week, I'm sure. And yet, you are such a permanent part of my heart, of my identity, that in some way you have always existed, because the place in me that has wanted and loved you has always existed. Your Grandma Morel talks about how when we choose to have a baby, we co-create with God. Not just a baby, a person who lives for a lifetime, but a soul, who isn't confined to days and weeks and years and experiences. You are an eternal being. There is no reality in which you will not exist - you are forever. For me, this is the most shockingly beautiful and crushingly terrifying thing about being your mother.
I hate so much of the way parenting is presented lately. I won't lie to you, it's harder than you will be able to know until you wade through it yourself, but it's so much more achingly beautiful than you're told to expect nowadays. Have I been covered in the unmentionable bodily fluids of another? Yes. Did the actual process of bringing you from my womb into this world emotionally, physically, and psychologically change something inside me, possibly forever? Yes. But Emma, this morning when I came in to see if you were somehow still asleep on my bed, your turned your big dark eyes at me and gave me this SMILE. And somehow nobody told me the way that smile would transform me. I heard a lot of stories about childbirth, went in prepared for the awful and graphic horror of it, but no stories about that grin. I heard a lot about how "everything will never be the same again, your freedom and independence is a thing of the past. And even if you had it, you'll be too tired to enjoy it." I never heard about how I'd trade every good day, every shred of "freedom" for a smile like that. They talk about parenting as though it's such intense sacrifice, and they're not wrong, but it's sacrifice after winning the lottery. It's done out of abundance, because they can't explain the way that that smile will make it worth it. You make everything worth it, in a way that feels almost stupid to say. Like, "I got a mansion for a dollar, but I still had to spend that dollar." And people who don't understand will lament the loss of your dollar. They will talk of inferior, worthless things they could have bought with that money, and others will join in and talk of the work and exhaustion of caring for a house that big, and maybe they should have gone with a 99 cent cheeseburger instead. Idiocy.
I adore you. You're amazing - an eternal soul wrapped in a pink blanket grinning at me like you've never been happier in your life to see someone, and you haven't. It's a look that as you get older you will only see in airport arrival terminals, and on the faces of grooms as their brides enter the church. It's that smile, and you give it to me all the time, and I drink it in and soak it up and allow you to become my favorite part of my identity and the rest of the world be damned. I don't care if it's the 21st century and women are supposed to find their identity in careers or themselves or feminism or some other such nonsense.
Here's the thing, Little: Jesus looks at you like that. Always. He looks at me like that. He is enamoured with us, and this is why having kids will be the very best choice you will ever ever make. Because somewhere in there, you will understand my love for you for the first time. The day they hand you your baby and your feelings are so big you are sure you will break wide open with ecstasy, promise me you will think, "my mother loves me like this." Because also, you will know how Jesus loves you. He calls us his children, even refers to himself as a mother, because there's nothing like that feeling. It will make you understand the cross, and how he could go gladly.
You and your sister have given me that. And sometimes it's hard, and I show you my humanity so often. I'm tired, and things are different, and sometimes I don't handle that change with the grace you deserve from me. But never let it be said of me that I didn't LOVE being your mom. You are so worth it, and you make me so happy. That smile, Emma. I can't even. Contrary to the above, there are no words that do your smile any justice at all.
I love you, Little. So much.
Mama
You are 183 days old. 26 weeks. 6 months. I want to say it in a way that makes you sound the newest, because time is passing too swiftly, blowing by me and leaving me bewildered. I brought you home last week, I'm sure. And yet, you are such a permanent part of my heart, of my identity, that in some way you have always existed, because the place in me that has wanted and loved you has always existed. Your Grandma Morel talks about how when we choose to have a baby, we co-create with God. Not just a baby, a person who lives for a lifetime, but a soul, who isn't confined to days and weeks and years and experiences. You are an eternal being. There is no reality in which you will not exist - you are forever. For me, this is the most shockingly beautiful and crushingly terrifying thing about being your mother.
I hate so much of the way parenting is presented lately. I won't lie to you, it's harder than you will be able to know until you wade through it yourself, but it's so much more achingly beautiful than you're told to expect nowadays. Have I been covered in the unmentionable bodily fluids of another? Yes. Did the actual process of bringing you from my womb into this world emotionally, physically, and psychologically change something inside me, possibly forever? Yes. But Emma, this morning when I came in to see if you were somehow still asleep on my bed, your turned your big dark eyes at me and gave me this SMILE. And somehow nobody told me the way that smile would transform me. I heard a lot of stories about childbirth, went in prepared for the awful and graphic horror of it, but no stories about that grin. I heard a lot about how "everything will never be the same again, your freedom and independence is a thing of the past. And even if you had it, you'll be too tired to enjoy it." I never heard about how I'd trade every good day, every shred of "freedom" for a smile like that. They talk about parenting as though it's such intense sacrifice, and they're not wrong, but it's sacrifice after winning the lottery. It's done out of abundance, because they can't explain the way that that smile will make it worth it. You make everything worth it, in a way that feels almost stupid to say. Like, "I got a mansion for a dollar, but I still had to spend that dollar." And people who don't understand will lament the loss of your dollar. They will talk of inferior, worthless things they could have bought with that money, and others will join in and talk of the work and exhaustion of caring for a house that big, and maybe they should have gone with a 99 cent cheeseburger instead. Idiocy.
I adore you. You're amazing - an eternal soul wrapped in a pink blanket grinning at me like you've never been happier in your life to see someone, and you haven't. It's a look that as you get older you will only see in airport arrival terminals, and on the faces of grooms as their brides enter the church. It's that smile, and you give it to me all the time, and I drink it in and soak it up and allow you to become my favorite part of my identity and the rest of the world be damned. I don't care if it's the 21st century and women are supposed to find their identity in careers or themselves or feminism or some other such nonsense.
Here's the thing, Little: Jesus looks at you like that. Always. He looks at me like that. He is enamoured with us, and this is why having kids will be the very best choice you will ever ever make. Because somewhere in there, you will understand my love for you for the first time. The day they hand you your baby and your feelings are so big you are sure you will break wide open with ecstasy, promise me you will think, "my mother loves me like this." Because also, you will know how Jesus loves you. He calls us his children, even refers to himself as a mother, because there's nothing like that feeling. It will make you understand the cross, and how he could go gladly.
You and your sister have given me that. And sometimes it's hard, and I show you my humanity so often. I'm tired, and things are different, and sometimes I don't handle that change with the grace you deserve from me. But never let it be said of me that I didn't LOVE being your mom. You are so worth it, and you make me so happy. That smile, Emma. I can't even. Contrary to the above, there are no words that do your smile any justice at all.
I love you, Little. So much.
Mama
