My Dearest Daughter,
You know if I don’t write this down, I’ll forget. Part of my memory was passed to you when you were born, as it will be passed down when your little one is born. An unseen, but felt, family heirloom. Despite the deficient memory, I still can share what I remember of motherhood.
I’ll be honest, when you were born, it wasn’t love at first sight. There are a lucky few who are head over heels before the vernix is wiped off, but it wasn’t until I was able to put you to sleep the first time by myself that I fell in love. You think you know, but wait until you feel that bond between a mother and child.
There will be many days and nights crying. You’ll reference the same checklist to solve the riddle of your mini-you. Once they’re asleep, after circling the block four times, you can stop…or start, crying.
All the studying, classes, and videos, give a semblance of preparedness. A baby will highlight how much isn’t known. This is where you’ll question if you know what you’re doing but despise the unsolicited advice of strangers, or even worse, my sister, Carol.
Your baby will be so much like you. And your world will still as they sleep, like mine did for you. I relearned what love is in those moments, and you will too.
The growth is tangible. From holding their head up, sitting, crawling, first smile, first laugh, then they’ll say their first word. That word will unlock Pandora’s box.
You might be lucky, like I was, and my grandbaby will talk early. Most children learn the word “no” quickly, especially if they get into things. If it was quiet, you were unraveling the toilet paper roll. I said “no” on repeat.
Then, the toddler phase. It can feel like a never-ending hostage negotiation where you are the cop and the hostage, talking to your mastermind villain toddler.
You believe you have the upper hand because your baby can tell you what they want. But they only want what they can’t have.
You’ll hold up two choices for breakfast. They say “no”.
No wasn’t an option. but children fight our logic with their advanced-unfiltered-outlook of the world.
When the youngest Miller generation can expand their vocabulary past no, you’re faced with conveying the concept of time. To them, everything is a thousand years and they’ll die before they get the thing they need.
You’d ask for chocolate but dinner was forty minutes away. You didn’t understand that you could have it after dinner.
The pressure of gravity would increase, causing you to collapse to the floor screaming. You learned that this should only be done on ground-level soft places, like carpet and rugs. If your baby doesn’t learn quickly, this will be a lesson in the art of redirection. The angry tears will change to “that hurt” faster than needy children who hear their parents relax in the other room.
There are loving moments, unprovoked by pain. The moments you mimicked a kiss on the cheek, hugged my legs, or requested to be picked up (usually when my hands were full).
Remember that memory our babies take at birth? It stores every “maybe”, “we’ll see”, and “later” brush offs said. How do you think the trip to Disney World happened, outside of your birthday and Christmas no less?
I look forward to watching from afar the extensive “why” played back to you. It will make you question your own outlook of the world. I suggest you teach them what you know and research or make up the rest, until they start to do things on their own. And when they get it right, there will be a tangible pride in their eyes from the newfound independence.
These are the bonding moments. The moments that you fine-tune their skills that you had decades to perfect. Teach them the proper hand position, follow-through, and focus. And, every once in a while, you’ll learn something too.
One day, they’ll stop asking for help. As if you’ve shared all the knowledge and they have it from here. They’ve heard all your stories and they’re ready to move out. You’ll barely survive these years. The earlier “no” phase doesn’t seem so bad, but now that seems to be the one word they know again. There are still moments of love, cuddling, advice seeking, but for the most part, their goal is to leave. And you’ll let them, like I let you.
After they leave, you question what to do with yourself.
I asked, how can my life revolve around you then my center leaves?
Some time passed and the phone rang. The one asking for advice for a skill I didn’t think to teach you yet. A skill that was autopilot and I forgot it wasn’t always known.
Then, you came home, not alone. It’s that person. The person that is serious enough to share time with the family. The one I got to know. The one I studied, to determine they are good enough. Then I realized, my center is this person’s center too. That’s when I knew, things are going to be okay.
For some families, the story stays there. Each chapter is filled with joy and love. The world is full, connected, and wonderful.
Other stories will create their own mini-stories, like what you have. Whether it is through birth or adoption, everyone’s centers grow. The expansion is exponential. It cannot be measured. And, right when I thought I wasn’t needed anymore, you called to tell me you’re pregnant. And this letter is for when you want to call and ask how to handle the crying, the tantrums, the excessive “no.” You turned out okay, and so will they.
I hope I was able to teach you everything I knew before I forgot. Since you have this letter, remember I’ll watch the debut of my first grandchild from above.
Love,
Mom