Dear Little Beauty of Mine, Emerald,
Well. Here we are. I, your 35 year old mother, bleary-eyed. You, your adorable pudgy little self. Lately I’ve done a lot of figuring up how old I will be when you do this or that. Did you know that you will graduate high school in the year 2030? And, God-willing, I will be 53.
Fifty-three is young, you know. I plan to be totally hip and with it. Ok, so I’m not hip and with it now, but that’s the great thing about you. You think I’m awesome, all-knowing, goddess-like. “Heidi Klum’s got nothing on MY Mama,” you think in your genius brain. Oh, stop! Heidi has her good points, too!
You, little Darling, have made the past five months of my life better. And worse. But, mainly better. Sure, I don’t sleep as much as I used to. But, who needs sleep? I would honestly gladly get up every hour to see your little face smiling up at me. But, for the record, I am also entirely happy to just see your face once the sun comes up. (Think about that at about three in the morning, m’kay?) Some of those mid-night moments, when it feels like the entire world is sleeping, are some of the most magical. That’s when I feel like you are completely mine, when I thank God for you and try to really FEEL you in my arms in an effort to remember someday what this feels like, someday when I’m 53 and you’re in a cap and gown and I want to go back this place, this golden moment in the middle of the night when I am so tired, so blessed.
You are beautiful.
Motherhood never gets old, that I can tell you.
You’re already changing. You may be forgetting what you knew of Heaven and all the things the angels whispered while you smiled and dreamed. I’ve always had that theory, you know. That you sweet babies smile in your sleep because you see things we grown ups can’t, not with our cynicism and our “knowledge” of what is possible and what isn’t. How I love to watch you with your deep, wise eyes, so bewildered by this world, but so full of the Truth of God and His love. I may be dreaming myself, but I like to to think about these things.
Thank you for enduring the journey into this world, for facing the lights and the cold and the harsh everything that goes on out here. You are a miracle. You are mine. Thank you for clinging to me. It really means a lot. You, my third baby, still as mysterious as the first. How I love you!