Letters to my Daughter and Son

Letter: One Year Old

Published on by Lisa

Dear Isaiah,

I couldn’t write your year letter.  I just couldn’t.

There is/was something about “a year old” that I could just not muster the bravery to sit down and admit to myself that you are one year old.

December 20, 2010.  Your first birthday.  You lived it just like any other day.  You lived it like you do everyday: joyously.

I watched you crawl and climb over things and everything.  I watched you nonchalantly take your hand away from the kitchen shelf that you were using to stabilize, for a moment, stand ever so briefly on your own before landing on your cute little bottom.

One year.

Your Dad and I had a staff meeting at work and you came with us.  No longer the silent child, you squirmed, laughed, and wiggled for almost 2 hours around the room, making everyone smile and sigh with memories of their own child. That night we went to a holiday party where everyone oohed and aahhed over your handsome face, your toothy grin, and your bright brown eyes.  To me, this is how all babies are: calm, comfortable, stranger friendly, healthy, and full of adorable babble.

Apparently, this is not the prescription for all children.  I don’t know how blessed I am.

To me you have the soul of a poet – an observing and thoughtful mind, a deeply feeling and intuitive person.  You have your father’s spirit – so easy going without any kind of trepidation of life.  Your excitement is all me – squealing, seeking company, finding fun everywhere, and seamlessly entertained by everyday surroundings.  How this is all going to mesh together is a mystery to me and your father, but we are confidant that however you grow, you will be a special child with grace and blessings.

As your mother, I had my own self doubts.  I have intense doubts about my ability to be a good parent.  I’m not good at hiding these questions and feelings.  The couch has witnessed numerous hours of quiet contemplation of what is best for you, what is best for me that behooves your safety and development.  I have so many moments of uncertainty that I feel I live now more in question than at any other time in my life.  And the only times I am certain are when you face me with that big smile and laugh, completely content in my and your father’s company.  It is in those brief moments I remember that you have all you need so as long as your father and I are here, peaceful and loving, joking and playing with each other and you.

My doubts never leave, despite my prayers that they relinquish their powerful hold.  I hope that someday, far off in the future when you have your own children or when you find yourself responsible for someone so vulnerable, that you can find a memory of me loving you with fear, despite fear.  I hope that somewhere in your soul is recorded that during your first year of life that you were loved beyond all things, beyond all desires, and above all matters in my life.  I hope that the small occurrences of my being short, snippy, or tired are smoothed over by the avalanche of nights we spent quietly talking and closely praying, those moments your head slowly dipped into rest on my shoulder and I teared up with gratitude.  I hope, somewhere, those times are encoded in your being.

Because what I will remember is having my life shaved nearly bare and finding you in the center of it.  My life morphed into something unnamed. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what it is and what happened, but I have a feeling I’m going to let it be unnamed for quite some time and just live it out.  It’s a year later and I still don’t know what happened when you came into my life.  All I know is that the force of goodness has never left since you arrived.

Happy 1st Birthday, Isaiah.

Happy Life and Spirit and Peace and Wonder to you for all the years of your life.

Love You Always,

Mom

Letter #11

Published on by Lisa

Dear Isaiah,

Yesterday I took a walk outside on an unexpected 60 degree day. My shoes came off and I dug my feet into the lush, autumn green. A tiny ladybug had landed on my knee and I played with it for about 10 minutes, flipping the tips of grass onto its pathway so it changed directions.

I wondered how in the world a God could exist that thought to create an insect with a red shell and black polka dots on its back. I wondered how in the world a God could exist that could create you inside of me.

You, me, and the ladybug hung out for a while before I went back to my office to finish the rest of the work day. But the fresh air and colors of yesterday stayed with me.

Today, I began fearing if I might be sick. A tickle in my throat, dry cough, slightly warm forehead…I began talking to myself, convincing myself that I was fine, you were fine. WE are fine.

I walked into my office and saw a storm of lady bugs on my ceiling, crawling on the window, more flying around on my screen, trying to find a way in. No where else in the building was there a concentration of ladybugs. I frowned, wondering why I would be so unfortunate to inherit all these pesky things. The wonder of yesterday was gone.

A co-worker walked in and gasped, “Look at your ladybugs! They are a sign of good luck!”

I googled it “symbolism of a ladybug,” and, sure enough, it means good luck and if one lands on you, it’s a sing of impending good fortune. It also means I/we are being protected.

Given my worry and anxiety that I am sick because of this tickle at the base of my throat, a small sign, smaller than a thumbnail, gives me some irrational comfort that you/we are going to be just fine.

Someone recently shared with me, after listening to my worries about becoming a mother, “It’s already begun. I can hear it. You want so much to keep this brand new life as pure as possible for as long as possible.”

My eyes filled and I nodded.

She laughed compassionately, “We don’t have a prayer! Even their first breath is already tainted.”

I smiled sadly, knowing it was true, but intuitively feeling like this impossible effort to keep you pure was still attainable.

Her eyes leveled mine, “But we do the best we can. Always. That’s what we do.”

I am doing the best I can. I hope that is enough for you/us.

Actually, maybe it’s more than enough for you and it’s ME who is expecting more.

Love Always,
Mama

Letter #10

Published on by Lisa

Dear Isaiah,

I’ve known that you are a boy for several weeks now and I feel somewhat guilty that when I thought you were going to be a girl, I wrote you several letters. Now that I know you are going to be a boy, I think my fear of raising a son has put me in an even deeper, inward place of wondering one thing: what in the hell am I going to do with a son.

You are kicking up a storm. Most often, you kick when I am sitting down and leaning over my laptop or computer to write, you tumble a reminder that you are inside me, waiting to come out, slowing maturing into something independent.

Physically, I’m beginning to feel a bit off balance, like you’re protruding forward in my belly makes me feel like I could fall forward if I’m not concentrating on keeping the small of my back tucked back in. There are funny things happening with my vision; small circles appear at the lower half of my right eye when I look away from my computer or suddenly get up. The doctor says it’s probably normal. My legs look like two pillows squished into shoes and my hair is a wild mane of thick black gloss, swinging across my back, keeping me warm. My fingernails grow a mile a minute and my acne-free life has been interrupted by these small soldiers, bumping their way along my forehead. My skin is warm, always warm and my mind elsewhere. It’s never with whoever is standing in front of me.

I’m starting to get out of breath and none of my clothes fit. Slowly, but surely, you are taking over my body and I’m beginning to understand both the overpowering love women feel toward their unborn child and I’m beginning to understand the frustration of feeling completely alien in my own skin. It’s kind of a bipolar experience.

Have I mentioned to you how I am in mild denial that I have to go through labor? It’s not the pain, it’s the UNKNOWN about labor that puts heavy anxiety in my abdomen. I don’t know anything — how long you will take, what a contraction feels like, if something goes wrong, if I will tear, a c-section…? And there’s no comparison. No metaphor that makes me feel better. The more others try to explain it, the smaller my ear canal becomes. I don’t want to hear what it was like for OTHERS, I want to know what it will be like for you and me.

Eventually, inevitably, without a doubt, sooner or later — I’ll know.

In our morning talks, I try to tell you what the world might be like by the time you get here, but each week, the world changes a bit. Health care reform stays stagnant though. Celebrities take turns in the headlines. Feminist news is on recycle. The seasons change. It’s now Autumn. World leaders continue their facades while citizens lobby their hearts out. In about 14 weeks, I don’t know what the world will tell you when you breathe it in for the first time. I’m hoping, selfishly, maybe I can breathe it in and try to see the world for the first time again with you. Maybe I’ll be full of curiosity, stubborn in my will to forge my own path, and open to all the possibilities of life.

But, maybe you’ll need me to be me. I’m far from new. I’m not nearly a newborn. Nor am I an old-timer. The only expertise I have to offer is the observations from my own two eyes and the scrapbook of lessons, the journals of my discoveries to share with you. Maybe you won’t need a partner to be curious with you, maybe you’ll need a mom who still believes in her own dreams, full of art and creativity, stubborn in my own right, loving in every decision.

I hope that will be enough for you. And I hope you and I will be born with an understanding of each other that surpasses my fear of raising a son.

With love always,
Tremendously,
Mom