A Letter to My Baby, When the World Feels Hard

Dear baby,

You woke up today chatting with yourself again. I think it’s my favorite sound in the world, you just peacefully greeting the day and waiting for me to snatch you up with kisses. What I would give for that kind of peace right now.

I carry you over to our chair to nurse you and try to avoid picking up my phone. I don’t want any more scary headlines or statistics; for a few minutes, I just want to be your mom. I want things to be as simple as they feel when the sun is still coming up and daddy and the dogs are still asleep. This is our time; that’s how I always envisioned these first few weeks. You, me, and no other distractions.

We go through our routine and make breakfast, and I put you in your bouncer, so I can eat. I look at my to-do list, change into workout clothes, and make a plan for the day. I’ve always been good with lists; they give me direction. I quiet the part of my brain that reminds me that today is just like yesterday and just like the day before. Are you bored, I wonder? I can’t take you anywhere else. Maybe we should try a different toy or bring the playtime downstairs. Anything to give you new stimulation. I run my fingers through my very unwashed hair, hoping that the total lack of socialization doesn’t mess with your development. We’ll call more friends today, I tell myself. New voices for you to hear; new sounds for you to unpack. Still not sure if that will be good enough.

I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that relishes in having you all to myself. You see, I was worried about juggling owning businesses and being a good wife and caring for you with all the attention you deserve, and this strange time has removed some of those boundaries. My job, my dream that I worked so hard for, exists, but it also doesn’t. While you nap, I’m working and flailing and wondering what the end goal is here - will my businesses recover? I don’t know. I’m trying to view this time like an extended maternity leave, but in the quiet, in-between moments of our day, I’m reminded that it’s not. My bank account and full inbox make that very clear.

While you coo and kick on your play gym, I avoid the temptation to open my email. There’s not really a work-life balance to be achieved right now. You’re really mastering tummy time, and I want to share it with the world, but I’m also aware that you’ll probably be rolling and crawling before most of your family sees you. Lifting your head will be old news by then. I celebrate your milestones with big cheers and excited faces because I realize I’m the only cheerleader you’ve got right now, at least in the flesh. FaceTime is a beautiful thing, but it pales in comparison to the plans I had for us during this season. As much as I want to give you the world, I can only offer you the adventures of our little home and the banter of friends through a screen. You’re really loved, just so you know, even if I can’t make the introduction to your fan club.

A few months before you were born, I made the trip to my house in Kentucky for my baby shower. I told my mom that I was sad to leave my childhood bedroom because it felt like the last time I was really going to be a kid. No kidding. This is your first chance to be a kid, to have that innocence that lights up a room. I’m thankful you won’t remember this and that you don’t get it. I talk to you all day long, but I don’t tell you how scared I am. You might not “understand”, but I know you can read my stress. I spent the better part of my childhood feeling like my parents, and adults in general, were so mature. They had all the answers; they didn’t worry. I don’t want you to see me worry, so I do that during your naps instead.

“Will things ever feel normal?” I ask your dad behind your back. With unfailing optimism, he assures me they will, and I wish I was just asking about postpartum. Honestly, you’ve been the thing that makes me pull myself together lately, instead of my reason for crying or not showering or not sleeping, like all the moms told me would happen. No, I’m not dealing with a postpartum crisis; you’re the best part of my day, not the hard part. Without you, I’d probably stay in my pajamas and spend too much time on the computer and work until I couldn’t work anymore, but you pull me back to reality. You deserve parents who point you to Jesus, I tell myself, so we play another worship album, and I cry as I sing to you. You always look at me funny when I cry; you know something’s wrong, even when I don’t tell you. Smarty pants.

I hope you read about this in the history books and ask me questions about what it was like. I want to be able to tell you that we made the best of it and spent our days celebrating you, and that’s what I’m fighting to do. You’re teaching me so much about the person I want to be, and I lean into that, so that you can grow up with confidence that God is on your side. Someday, when you’re old enough, I’ll tell you that it was sad, too, and that I really wanted you to see your family (or even the inside of a coffee shop) in those early days.

And at the end of every evening, when we go back to our chair and nurse and you fall asleep in my arms, I pray that God keeps us safe and healthy, and I pray that I have the courage to surrender my worries about all of it. Even though I feel a little bit trapped, you’re my favorite person to be stuck inside with, and I hope you feel the joy that you give to us. I never knew it was possible to experience so much happiness and so much grief at the same time, but I feel them both every time I see you change before my eyes and realize that I can’t share you.

As I lay you down, I remind myself not to wish away these moments because, while they are so hard, they’re still your first memories. I don’t want to rush through your baby steps, even if I’m dreaming of the day when this is all behind us. You’re my greatest gift and reminder that God is so good, even when the world feels hard. I don’t have answers for you, but I’m here for you, and I’m learning that that is the best I can offer. Searching for answers, wishing for guidance. Needing someone to hold my hand.

You’re sleeping now, and I’m not. Still awake, still wondering if tomorrow will be a good day or a heavy one. Choose to make it a good one, I tell myself. Choose hope. I watch you wiggle and sigh to get comfortable, and as you let go of your day, I let go of a few of my worries. God wants that kind of peace for us, I remind myself. Thanks for showing me that, baby. I think you’re a bit wiser than we are.

Night night.