As promised, the letter to Baby:
December 22, 2014
Hi Little One,
I’m writing to you now from the middle seat of an airplane. It’s loud and dry in here, and the gentleman to my left is leaning quite heavily on my arm. But he seems to need the rest, so I’m letting it go.
It’s three days before Christmas, and your Daddy and I are taking a trip we never planned or wanted to take. Your Grandpa John is sick. He’s in the hospital, and we’re going to see him, to make sure we get the chance at least one more time. I’ll be honest, sweet girl–Mommy has been less than selfless about this. I’m disappointed not to be with our Washington family. We were looking forward to telling them all about YOU. They will be so excited to hear that you’re on your way. The disappointment will pass though, and you’ll get your big moment! By the way, as your Dad just pointed out, I realize that I’m pretty convinced that you’re a baby girl. If you turn out not to be, please accept my apologies and know that I’m crazy about you either way. I’ll buy you Seahawks tickets to make up for it–deal?
Anyway, as you’ll learn when you fall in love someday, my own disappointment has been easily overshadowed because someone I love is hurting. Actually, lots of someones. My heart is broken for your Daddy, but there’s nothing I can do to take his pain away. I can only hold him through it. And as much as I’m worried about him, I’m also worried about you. I’m worried that all of this travel and stress and well, worry will hurt you. I worry that being far away from home will make it harder for me to take care of you.
Yet somehow, in all of my crazy worrying, it’s like God’s giving us both a hug. Like somehow your sweet little beating heart is slowing mine down a bit.
In the 8 weeks that you and I have been together, it’s become clearer and clearer to me how much being your mom will require me to trust God. Because really kiddo, from this point on, I can only do what I can do. Right now, I can only limit my caffeine intake, skip the margaritas, and avoid skydiving. I can get my 60 grams of protein and 60-80 ounces of water. But after that, all I can do is pray. As much as I wish there was, there is nothing I can do now to guarantee that you’ll be safe.
The same will be true when you’re a toddler, or a fourth grader. When you’re a teenager and when you’re an adult. I can feed you, clothe you, shelter you, and comfort you. I can sing you songs, and Daddy and I can make you laugh and tell you our stories. We can teach you and caution you and prepare you. But we can never fully guarantee that you’ll be safe and protected.
We’re sure going to try, though.
But ultimately, it’s not us who will keep you safe. My love, before you were our child, and eternally after our time with you–you were and will be a child of God. Just like your Dad, just like me. Just like your great-grandmas and great-grandpas up in Heaven. Just like your Grandpa John.
Kiddo, thank you for the reminder. It’s awfully nice having you for company. Thank you for reminding me that all of us, including myself, can only do what we can–what we know is right to do. Sometimes it’s taking prenatal vitamins and naps. Sometimes it’s booking a flight four hours before it leaves to say what you need to say. Sometimes it’s just recognizing that you haven’t the faintest idea what to do, and that’s okay.
I don’t know what’s going to happen today, or tomorrow. But I’m grateful for every moment God has given me, and will give me, as your Mama. You are the sweetest gift.
I love you,