Last night I crawled in bed with you. Well, I suppose it was actually this morning, as it was about 12:30 on your clock. I moved your big bear, a gift to you "from" your new baby sister more than six years ago. I moved the bear, and I laid down in its spot. I didn't wake you up, but I did brush your beautiful brown hair out of your face, and you snuggled up to me. I wrapped my arm around you. And I cried.
It's been years since I crawled into your bed while you were sleeping. Every night I peek at you, often I kiss my finger, and I rub it down your nose. Many nights I turn your music down. Sometimes I turn it off. I close your curtains or I open your window. I check your alarm to make sure it's on, though I know you'll just turn it off in the morning and roll over to go back to sleep like the teenager you will too soon become. But last night, I crawled in bed with you.
You see, I read the most terrifying book*. It took me a few days, but last night I laid awake in bed reading, long after I should have fallen asleep. I just had to finish it, because I couldn't read it for another day. Don't get me wrong, Sweetheart. It was a good book. It was beautifully written, but it was terrifying. I read the last third of the book with my jaw dropped in disbelief and tears of horror mixed with sadness about to spill from my eyes. Then, finally, in the last three pages, they did spill. And I knew I needed to go to you and hold you and whisper a prayer over you.
There are many truths I want to impart to you while you are mine to mold and shape. And there are truths I want to hide from you while you are mine to protect. Last night I crawled in bed with you because I needed to tell you one of each. First, one I wish you didn't know, though I suspect one day you will. In fact, I imagine one day you will grow and marry and have children of your own. And then you will need to know it, because it will be true for you, too.
Dear one, I am terrified you will learn that I have absolutely no clue how to be your mother. I started a journal for you--and any future siblings--on the first break I took from you after you were born. The first time I left you out of my care. I was terrified then, too. ee cumings has a poem that is apparently nothing about having a new baby, but I discovered it when you were mine. The first lines read
See, I was terrified that I would break you. I didn't know how to protect you, and I was certain I would break you. So here is the secret: I still am. I don't know how to protect you, my beautiful daughter, and I am certain I will break you. And if I don't, if I manage somehow to maintain a relationship with you (that I'm not even sure we have now), and I don't damage you, I know this world can. Girls are mean, honey. Boys can be selfish and cruel and demeaning. Pressures for sex and drugs and giving more of your heart away than you can afford to someone who doesn't deserve it . . . I want to shelter you from all of it, and I can't. I don't know how. And, you being brand new and you know consequently a little stiff and fragile and precious and beautiful--I want to be careful of you and I want the world to be careful of you. Because I'm terrified you will break.she being Brand-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff I was
careful of her . . .
But there's another truth, too. This is one you must know. You simply must. And I will whisper it to you and I will shout it to you and I will write it for you and I will pray that it is tucked into your heart and your beautiful mind and that you live it every day. You are worth more than gold. You are beautiful. You are treasured. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. And the only reason I am not a bundle of anxiety every moment you are out of my sight--and every second you are in it, because remember I have no idea how to be a mom--is because you are never, not for one breath of a second, out of the care of the One who knit you together in my womb. The One who knew you before the dawn of creation. The One who died on a cross and fought against death so you can live forever. He won't keep everything bad from happening to you. I know that. But He will keep you together. He will keep me and the world from breaking you. I know that to be true, and I need that to be true.
And so, last night, as you slept peacefully, and I held you with tears streaming down my face and memories of bullies and pain and harassment and mean girls and lies and nightmares of everything bad that could happen to you flooding my mind, I took a deep breath. And I whispered a promise to you. And my promise was also a prayer to God, a desperate plea that I need Him to hear.
My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I am here for you. I am here. And I am not too busy. I will never again be too busy to hear you and to see you. I want to know you, Love. Like I knew you when I carried you inside me. When my heart beat with yours. Everything I did then, I did knowing I needed to protect you. I was your safe place then. I want to be your safe place forever, Heart of mine. I am here, with ears to listen to you and eyes to see you. With a heart that is open to whatever you have to share and whomever you are. I want to hear what you say. I want to hear about your day and your dreams and your fears and your joys. And I want to hear what you don't say. See what you don't want to show anyone. My darling girl, I love being your mother. Even when it's hard. Even when I need a break. Even when we fight. Even when I'm hard on you. So, give me grace enough to help me see you when I'm blinded by what is happening around us. I want to ask the questions you need me to ask, but, Baby, I'm scared I won't know them. So, please, give me a hint. Give me a chance. Because you are too important to me to lose . . . even for a moment. I love you, my beautiful girl.
With all my heart,
Your Mom
* Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight
If you have children, read it. If you love children, read it. It's hard to read. It's not tidy. The language is bad, and there are many, many hard moments. But our kids are worth it.
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