A Letter to my First Born Daughter
Sweet Girl, There's Never Enough Time
Dearest B,
My favorite memories of your first year around the sun were that of synchronicity. I’d be laying on the couch, or sitting in the rocker, or walking around the block with you snuggled up against me. No matter how overtired or fussy you might have been, we’d reach the moment where our heartbeats synched together. It was my job to regulate myself, so I could regulate you, and in those moments, I felt like a superhero.
I felt like your superhero.
Being able to calm you gave me such gratitude. At times, I even used that ability to define myself as your mother. You’re the only one I’ve ever gotten to know that has heard my heartbeat from inside of my body - what wonder and amazement that must have been.
During the second year of your life, I made lots of memories with you. Everything was new to you as you began exploring, reaching, touching, walking, waving, pushing and climbing - and seeing the world through your eyes brought me a joy I can’t quite explain. To borrow words from Emma Stone’s Oscar acceptance speech, “you turned my world technicolor.”
Just a few months after you turned two, we found our we were expecting twins. You have known for a while now that your brother and sister were born too early and had to go to heaven, but what I’ve tried to shield you from is how much that broke mommy apart.
Three was a blur to me. It was essentially filled with grief, heartache, loss and pain. To start, I worked hard with a team of therapists to become brave again, to come home to myself and maybe even more importantly, to become available to you again. I was gone all day everyday for a while, and I missed the whole summer of splash pads and chalk and going to the park and playing make believe. Then I had spinal surgery, and spent almost two months in bed afterwards trying to recover. I’ve never known physical pain like that before, and I hated you seeing me that way. I hated that every time you came home, you knew you could find me in my room. I wanted to be with you. I wanted you to be proud of me.
Four’s been pretty rough for me, too. I spent nearly 3 months time in the hospital this past year, between Crohns, esophageal surgery and meningitis, and I’ve spent the last four months again in my bed, trying desperately to recover. This time, I’ve missed out on so much more. Days of getting you ready for school, taking you to gymnastics and dance class, taking you on adventures, going to bounce houses and ball factories, reading you books and tucking you in at night.
I’ve tried, desperately, every single day to be available in the tiny ways I have been able to - inviting you into my bed to snuggle, spending time on the couch when that’s feasible, being back in your line of sight more often, and reminding you that I love you to the moon and back.
These past few weeks, I’ve been fighting against myself, against my literal body, to show up for you. I’ve started getting up earlier in the mornings to help you get ready for school. I’ve spent more time in the afternoons playing with you, and I’ve been available any night you’ve let me snuggle before bedtime.
In fact, it was during one of those snuggle sessions, with you tucked in right beside me, holding my hand, that I got lost in the thoughts I’m writing here for you now.
Here’s the truth: I’ve missed out on what feels like nearly half of your life to date. This fact breaks my heart into two. Logically, I know it hasn’t been my choice, but I continue to question if you’ll know that too. As you get bigger, there will hopefully be more days that I’m present than absent, and these thoughts will just be distant memories, but I also know that I live with several autoimmune diseases that are beyond my control. There will likely be additional hospitalizations, periods of recovery and rest as you grow up, and what I want you to know then is the same thing I want you to know now:
Nothing will ever change how much I love you.
I will always, always be here for you.
I will always be a safe space.
You can tell me anything, anytime, forever.
You light up my life.
Even when I can’t be with you, I hold you tight in my heart.
I know you’re just approaching five, baby girl, but I also know how smart you are. How much you empathize for others. How much love you have to give. How meticulous you are. How much love you have to give. And fortunately or unfortunately, how much and how well you remember things.
I keep asking myself this question: When we’re preparing for your 10th birthday, what will you be thinking about?
There’s no way for me to have an answer for this, but here’s what I do know:
At age 10, age 15, age 25, age 50 - I hope you know as long as I’m here, you’re never ever alone.
I have loved you since before you existed, and I’ll love you long after I’m gone.
Being your mother has been the biggest honor of my life.
I’m so proud of you.
Always,
Mama