Dear Juliette,
You turned six months old yesterday. That means it’s been
way more than six months since I have done anything
care-free. More than six months since I’ve gotten tipsy. Since I put any food
in my mouth without wondering how it will affect you. Since I have slept
like…well, like someone without a baby. Since I have spent more than a dollar
without a care in the world.
But that also means it has been six months of bliss. Of you.
And your baby-soft skin. Your crinkly, slitty eyes. Your infectious smile that
lights up your entire body, down to your toes. Your warm head and cool feet.
Your teeny-tiny little outfits. Six months of wearing you, with nothing in the
world between us. Of closing my eyes every night with a “thank you, God”
already on my lips and waking up with a heart bursting with love and the
reminder that you are still here – you are still mine.
How I got so lucky, I will never know. Our situation is not
perfect. Sometimes I get lost in that and I feel badly for myself, for you. But
then I remember: you are here. You are healthy. You are happy. And you are
mine. I grew you. Literally. In this body that I sometimes disrespect and
sometimes get frustrated with. It created a miracle for me. As I tell you, it’s
“just crazy talk.” I saw that word – pregnant - on the test and I swallowed
hard. I wasn’t expecting it. It wasn’t part of my plan. I knew it was a life-changer But I didn’t fully understand it yet.
I didn’t understand the responsibility. The worry. The
stress. The thoughts that run away from you. I didn’t understand the process.
The cost. The changes. But most of all, I didn’t understand the love. Oh my
goodness, the love. The love that you can feel for another human being – a love
that takes over your every fiber. An
undeniable, uncontrollable, even involuntary love. But how could I have understood that before you? Impossible.
In six months, you have made life impossible without you. I
can’t live without that smell. Without tripping over a pipey and a blankie. I
can’t imagine life without a fourteen-pound baby wrapped to me. I can’t shower
without a baby tub behind me, can’t sleep without a teddy bear rattle close by.
And I would not change a thing.
I wouldn’t change those chubby, biteable cheeks. That
silent-movie laugh. Not even those clammy, clammy feet. I wouldn’t change those
kicks while you’re nursing or those cries when I put you down. You are mine.
You are me. And you are the best six months of my life.
Love,
Momma
