My Dearest Baby,
The first night we brought you home from the hospital, we went to lay you down to sleep and you made gasping noises. Three of them. Loud, gasping-for-air, can't-breathe noises. And then you fell into a peaceful sleep. Just like every cough and sneeze and nose run, I talked to your doctor about what I had witnessed. He told me that if you weren't turning blue, you were fine. Just like every cough and sneeze and nose run... it was normal.
But you see, sweet love, these things weren't normal to me. Every cough was a terrible cold and every gasp-for-air bedtime breath was a sure sign that you were dying. I was terrified.
The first time you didn't poop for a span of 5 days, you cried. And I cried too. I've never wanted anything more in my life than for you to finally pass a bowel and even as I type this right now I'm laughing because of how excited dad and I were when you had the biggest blowout to date. As we wiped poop off of your back and the changing table and the ceiling (jokes), you returned to our happy, adorable baby. And a huge weight lifted off of my chest.
As the months went on, I became less terrified and more concerned when little things were off with you. Like when you suddenly started screaming during baths. I never wanted to bathe you again because God-forbid anything I should do would break your soul. It felt like, in giving you a bath, I was hurting you in some way. I was concerned that the water was too hot or that you might think that I wasn't listening and didn't care when you cried. Every time it was bath night, my chest tightened in anticipation. As I set you in the tub, I winced, sure of what was to come. It turns out you just wanted to sit up in the tub instead of lay in it. *Destroying your soul for life: avoided*
There was one night at Grandma and Grandpa's farm when you didn't feel well and couldn't sleep. We woke up at 2am and daddy was feeding you a bottle while I pumped. This time there was definitely something wrong. You had a 99.7 fever.... but nothing can happen unless it's 101.4. You cried. I cried. Daddy sat there trying to console his two girls. But seriously, my heart felt like it was bring ripped out of my chest not being able to help you.
Yesterday I tried to let you "cry it out" at naptime. I set a timer on my phone and I sat on the floor outside of your room and watched every painful second pass by. You cried... HARD. And I sat there staring at that phone with tears in my eyes and milk all over my shirt because even my body knows when you need me. I thought about helping you find your independence and how in the long run you'll sleep better. Thank God the timer hit "0" because by the time I convinced myself you didn't need to be independent and that sleep was overrated, it was time to take you into my arms and snuggle you until you realized I hadn't left you alone for long.
Every first sound, the time you discovered your hands, the first day you sat up... all of these milestones lift my heart straight to Heaven, really they do. There was nothing more magical than the first time you intentionally smiled at me. Your first giggle... I can't describe it. We tried to capture it on video, and I'm so glad we did, because every time you don't nap or I feel like a bad mommy for letting you cry it out, I look back on those things and my heart explodes for you. I see a glimpse of who you will be. My heart swells with pride because the miracle of your life... my body was a vessel for that.
Sometimes I look at you and my womb physically aches in the spot where you made your home. I can feel where you once were. It doesn't happen often, it's just in those tender moments when you open your eyes just enough to see me and smile before you fall asleep in my arms. Sometimes I feel as though our souls are connected as intimately as our bodies once were.
In your mere five months of life I feel like I've lived the best and hardest of mine. Sacrifice has taken on a new meaning, because it's not intentional anymore, it's engrained in my heart. I just do it. My body aches to help you, to care for you. I have to be intentional about pulling myself FROM you, from the sacrifice, to fill my bucket. But it goes against every instinct I have now to give MORE to you.
I write this now because I know in a few years (God-willing) there will be some brothers and sisters surrounding you, and I don't know if I'll ever feel quite like this again. I don't know what of the magic will be lost. But I do know this... No time in my life will ever feel as special as carrying YOUR life inside me. And nothing will ever be as magical as YOUR entrance into the world. You've changed me.
I am eternally grateful for your little life. And I love you.
Love,
Mommy
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