It’s been nearly a month since I’ve written anything. This morning, I woke up thinking about our next child and felt the need to finally put thoughts to paper again. (I am not pregnant. I just daydream often about our Someday Babies.)
I’ve been writing letters to myself that I plan to use as affirmations for my next pregnancy. I’m trying to cover everything; I have envelopes labeled “read this when you get a positive pregnancy test,” “read this when you need a little hope,” “read this when you’re terrified before the first appointment,” “read this when you find out what you’re having,” and “read this when it’s time for baby to come home.” This is just the beginning.
After losing my daughter at thirty-eight weeks, I know that there is no such thing as a “safety” zone in pregnancy. To me, this means that every step of my next nine-month journey is going to be scary and difficult. So, I’m trying to create my own safety net.
I realized this morning, though, that I don’t have any letters addressed to our next child yet; they are all addressed to me.
I’ve been talking a lot with my therapist lately about how I’m terrified to ever get attached to another baby. What if we go another thirty-eight weeks, fall head-over-heels in love, and have our hearts crushed again? I know mothers who have survived it, but I don’t know if I could be one of them.
But I do know one thing about myself: I can’t love anyone halfway. I love wholeheartedly. My future children are no exception. So, this morning’s letter is to you, my future Little One, whoever you may be. I love you endlessly.
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Dear Little One,
Do you know how much I love you?
Let me try to put it into words.
I love you so much that I am terrified, every moment of every day, of losing you. I’m terrified to enjoy any milestones with you because I know that, any day these nine months, you could be taken from me.
But I also love you so much that I’m going to try.
I am going to try my absolute hardest to enjoy every single milestone with you—because I love you, and you are meant to be cherished and savored.
Fear will tell me to stay crouched down, eyes covered and closed, cowering in fear of losing you.
But I already love you.
Even though I know you could leave, too, I already love you.
I loved you before you were even created. I cried over how much I love you.
I want to enjoy every single moment I have with you, whether I have only a few weeks or a lifetime.
For you, I will pull myself back up off the ground, time and time again. I will dust off my bloody knees and hold my knuckles at the ready, prepared to fight the anxiety that tells me you’ll never come home. I will do it over and over and over again. I will never stop.
I am tired, though, Little One. As hard as I fight it, this fear keeps me awake.
I lie awake in fear that you won’t make it home. I lie awake in fear that I love you too much to handle losing you. But how does one ever love a child less than I love mine?
Instead, help me to lie awake to the feeling of your kicks inside my belly.
Let me lie awake on the floor of your nursery, daydreaming about snuggling you to sleep there.
Let me lie awake in the confidence of knowing that your heart is still beating alongside mine.
Let me lie awake assured that when the sun rises, your tiny heart will still be beating.
Let me lie awake knowing that, in this moment, you are sleeping soundly and you are safe.
Let me lie awake knowing that your sister is watching over every breath we take together.
And someday, let me lie awake in the hospital, watching your father fall in love with you as you come blinking and breathing and, praise God, crying, into this world.
Let me lie awake next to your bassinet, watching your chest rise and fall, and staring in wonderment at a baby who is wonderfully ALIVE. Let me feel the hand of your sister on my shoulder, telling me, “I’m so proud of you, Mama.”
Someday, let me lie awake as I replay over and over and over the video of your first laugh. Let me imagine your sister smiling down on us as I replay that video over and over and over. Let me hear her laughter on the wind.
Let me lie awake as I play back your first day of kindergarten and the way you came home safely to me, day after day after day.
Let me lie awake when I can’t stop hearing your favorite cartoon song over and over because you asked me to watch it with you, over and over.
Let me lie awake the day we put your first A+ on the refrigerator and see you beaming with pride.
Let me lie awake the day you come home crying and ask me to hold you until you fall asleep. I’ll curl your body close to mine and thank God that you’ve been given life outside of me. I’ll curl your sister’s bear into us, too, and wish that she could be the other half of our Little One sandwich.
Let me lie awake the first time you fall in love, the first time you mess up, the first time you go to college, the first time you call me just because you want to hear my voice again.
Little One, I want every single one of those moments with you. Even if we never make it to see them through, I’m going to live my life with the hope that we will.
Because I already love you. I can’t even begin to tell you how much.
—Mama
