A Letter to My Daughter
March 21, 2012
Dear Sarah,
Today you are one year old. ONE. WHOLE. YEAR. I can’t believe that one year ago this morning I hadn’t even met you yet! You were still a dream of things to come, a wish to be fulfilled. I didn’t even know if you were a boy or a girl (except that I always kind of suspected that you would be a girl). I remember using my vision of who you would be to help me get through the contractions. Would you have lots of hair, or be a little bald baby? How big would you be? Would you cry a lot or be mostly happy? What would it feel like to have your little finger close around mine, to have you curled against my chest as you slept, to rest my cheek on top of your sweet-smelling head?
One year ago tonight, at 6:15 pm, on a cold, hard table in an operating room at Shawnee Mission Hospital (just before I threw up from the meds they jabbed into my back for the C-section), I got the answers to all my questions. When you were born, I was so taken by your dark hair and those big blue eyes staring straight into mine, I couldn’t bear to look away. My heart was bursting with love. It was as if you and I had known each other all of our lives. I held you in my arms - so tiny, a fluttering thing, a bird – totally terrified and totally in love. There are no words, written or spoken, for what that moment meant (and means) to me. I forced myself to let other people hold you, if only to spread the joy that seeps from your pores.
This year has gone by more quickly than any other year of my life. I wonder if every year from now on will go by as fast. Sometimes I think about what it will be like when you are old enough to talk to me and tell me how much you love me - or what a jerk I am. I know that both are coming. That’s life. I am also prepared to spend a long time waiting to become good friends with you, because I know that’s coming, too.
For now, though, I will just enjoy snuggling with you and singing “You Are My Sunshine” to you each night before putting you in your crib with your blue bear and your blankie. I will savor waking up to the sound of you talking to your toys and chanting "mom-mom-mom" when you’re ready to get up. I will have fun stacking blocks with you and banging on Tupperware and playing peek-a-boo. I will enjoy fishing inedible objects out of your mouth and reminding you that my shoulder isn’t something that you should bite. I will thank you for holding your shoes up to the bottom of your feet to help me as I put them on your chubby little feet. I will cheer you on as you learn how to come down the stairs in a safe manner and try not to gasp in fear when you come down the stairs “your way.” I will even try not to roll my eyes at you when you say “all done” in your sweet little voice (“ah duh”), seconds before throwing everything on your highchair tray to the floor in a grand avalanche of sippy cups, Cheerios and string cheese.
As cliche as it is to say, it seems like just yesterday that we met for the first time. And yet a whole year has passed. 365 days. 525,948 minutes. I now know the difference in your cries, your favorite books and the best places to tickle you in order to evoke the sweetest little laugh. And you know that saying “mom-mom,” wrapping your arms tightly around my neck, and giving me one of your sloppy, wet, open-mouth kisses melts my heart.
The proverbial “they” always tell parents to cherish each moment and never take a day for granted. I can honestly say that I have done everything in my power over the last year to do just that. While there are grown-up obligations and responsibilities that take me away from you, you are on my mind and in my heart constantly.
You have brought me more joy than I ever dreamed possible. From you I have learned patience, I have experienced family, and I have evolved. I am a better person for having you in my life.
Today is the most beautiful day. This has been the most beautiful year. You are the most beautiful part of my story.
Happy birthday, my beautiful baby girl.
With more love than you can possibly imagine,
Mommy
“A Mother’s Prayer for Her Daughter”
by Tina Fey
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Amen.
