To My Daughter, On Your Second Birthday
What I Dwell On, What I Don't
There are many things I could say I regret. After all, which one of us is the kind of parent we most want to be in each moment, much less in the mountains and valleys of a child’s first year of life? Add in a generous dose of postpartum depression and anxiety, and the regrets pile up even more.
I worried myself sick, I left you alone too much, I did the dishes instead of snuggling you, I got angry with your crying: I did this and that and I didn’t do that and I didn’t do this . . . But you know what matters most? Us, now.
This is me and you, now: You are snuggled tightly against me, my arms heavy across your back, your once-dark curls, now chestnut brown, nestled in the hollow of my collarbone. The two middle fingers on your right hand are stuck into your mouth. Or: You are playing across the room with your board books, carefully turning each page and gazing at the pictures. You look up and you see me watching you from where I’m cooking or washing up; your entire face lights up with a smile. And sometimes you drop the book and make a beeline straight for my legs, asking for more snuggles.
I know when you need me and what you need (mostly its hugs) and you know I will meet your needs. You trust me. That is beautiful, little one.
I dreamed of this as you grew inside me, holding onto the hope of our relationship as I retched into the kitchen sink three times a day (after breakfast, after lunch, after supper). I endured through the long months of pregnancy, sore with the added weight and the loose joints that loved to fail me in the middle of a summer walk.
When the evening of your birth finally arrived, I pulled you up through the water to my chest, sobbing with joy. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus,” I cried. You were finally here. You are here. What grace!
My intention is always to stay with you here, in this moment, but yet, I think of all there might be to fear in your future. Women I sit down with share stories of vulnerability and innocence that Evil took and rubbed in their faces, of systems that claimed to support but instead suffocated and silenced. Could that be you one day? My little girl? If I’m being honest, I know my arms (or my preparation or knowledge or instruction) can’t protect you from the worst this world has to offer. But I know I can always open my arms for you.
Today, and every day.
May you continue to snuggle in my arms, today and the next and the next. May you continue to look across the room and see me watching you, and we’ll share that smile that says, “I love and delight in you so, so much.”
May God grant you curiosity and honesty and courage and a sense of beloved-ness, all in measures abundant and unending and above what I could ask or think.