To my wildfire: happy second birthday

My sweet Arlandria,

It is now midnight, which means seven hundred and thirty days ago I heard you cry for the first time. Piercing and loud, I gasped when I first heard your tiny voice. I looked up at your dad, because he was able to see you over the surgery curtain. I saw the look of awe in his eyes when he heard you cry. He was as mystified as I was, for your cry filled the sterile corners of the tiny operating room. Long and loud, it demanded to be known.


Looking back now, I realize that cry was the first spark of the wildfire that is your life.

Tonight I heard that same cry as you woke up from a nightmare. This time that cry was also paired with a shout of "Mommy," which made me immediately run to you. You've been having nightmares lately. This is something that I realize comes with this age in life, but it doesn't make it any less painful. So I went to you, like I always do, and cuddled you close. I gave you your doll that you had lost in the dark, and we laid together as our breathing slowly started to intertwine into a nighttime melody. It made me wish I could take all your exhales and store them up so tightly, so that maybe I could capture your babyhood for just a little longer.

keep your joy.

Dear Mariposa,

Last month you turned six months old. It is crazy to me that you have been here for half a year now. It feels like you have been here for much longer. Even at your birth you seamlessly nestled your way into our family, and I can't imagine a life without you. This letter is quite similar to the one I wrote prior to this, but I'm still processing my emotions at your arrival and how you changed my life.
Last night, I was thinking back on the first few weeks after your birth, and how badly I struggled with depression and anxiety. Balancing work and motherhood was hard for me, and there were many pieces your dad was left to pick up in the aftermath. I was like a shadow, going through the motions but not ever truly present. I remember saying that the pregnancy robbed me of my joy, but looking back now I see that I was wrong.

To my little butterfly: thank you

Dear Mariposa,

Little butterfly, today you woke up with a smile on your face. Most days you great me with a gentle smile that fills every inch of me with joy. When I find out we were having a little girl, I knew I wanted the name Mariposa. It's gentle and lovely, much like you. I've only known you for eleven short weeks, but you have totally transformed my life for the better.

"Obstinate, headstrong girl"

Dear Arlandria,

My dear, you are an obstinate and headstrong girl; and I wouldn't have it any other way.

This week was hard. We've had periods or days that were rough, but they were singular and quickly turned around. This week was different. I'm not sure if it because you are going through a developmental leap, or if it was because your sister was needing more of my time. Whatever the cause, we struggled, and we struggled together.

Dear Mariposa: You are almost here

Dear Mariposa,

It's Dad writing to you. It's been a long time since Mom or I wrote anything like this. One of these days I think it's something you may learn - life sometimes gets the better of you. Between the jobs to work, bills to pay, chores to do, and life to live, we sometimes stop doing things we want or put it off because exhaustion and habit can take us to a place where we want to be comfortable.

All that matters when that happens, Posie, is that you get back to doing it eventually. And today that's what I'm doing. For you.

Dear Arlandria: Year One

Dear Arlandria,

Tonight as I held you close and gave you goodnight kisses, I realized that it would be the last time I kissed you before you turned one. To you, it was a normal night and our typical bedtime routine. To me, it was the closing of a chapter and I felt like I was sending you off to college. I realize this sounds dramatic, but it's so true. Little one, you have given me the most beautiful year of my life, and I will never stop thanking you for it. You are my proudest accomplishment, and for my greatest achievement in life.

This year we faced trials together, as we battled reflux, colds, tummy viruses, teething, and so much more. You've caused me to grow up and let go of many things that made me selfish. You've taught me to practice self care, because if I don't take care of myself I cannot take care of you. I've gotten more thoughtful and intentional with my spending habits, and house chores.
While I've become a better person because of you, I've also failed you more times than I can count. I've realized that I will never be a perfect parent. While I do spend more hours than I care to admit worrying over if I am good enough, I realize that I will still fail you. I will continue to disappoint you, as I have many times before. I'm human and flawed, it's going to happen.  I remember before you were born that I worried about not being good enough for you, not being able to be everything you need.

Looking back I see the spots where I wasn't able to be everything you needed. But you know what? Someone else was able to step in and be the thing that you needed--and that is okay. Some days you wanted nothing but your dad. You wanted to play and roughhouse in ways that only he offers. Some days I was sick and exhausted from being pregnant with your sister, and I couldn't give you everything you needed. Despite this I can confidently say that you never were in want or in need of anything. While I wasn't the one providing for you all the time, someone was at all times.

And that is my birthday wish for you this year. I hope that you will choose to surround yourself with good people in your life. People that meet your needs and pour into you. I hope you find people that you are also able to love, care for, and nurture in return. I hope you are inspired and challenged. I hope you grow and are pushed to become more than you are.
I realize there will come a day where we probably won't be close, and you will choose others over me, because you will be 13 and I will not be able to understand you no matter how hard I try. We will speak different languages despite the fact that you lived inside me for nine months and I studied your syntax so ardently. There will be a temporary barrier between us, and you will choose to turn to others for guidance and comfort. When that day comes I hope you have the ability to discern between those that seek to help you grow, and those that seek to tear you down.

While I won't be able to be there and give you all that you need, I hope you have people that will. I hope that you find people that make you dream big and never settle for less. And when the world does fail you, because it will, I promise I will always be here. I will always want to pour into you and love you when you need it the most. I promise to always try to listen, even when I can't understand.

You are meant for the stars, little one, so please never settle for looking at the things on the ground.

Happy first birthday, my darling.

Love,
Your mother.

8.26.18

Dear Arlandria,
When I first became pregnant with you, people had A LOT of opinions. What doctor I should see. What hospital I should deliver at. Was I going to breastfeed? Was I going to co-sleep? It was overwhelming. It felt like people would congratulate me, then immediately give a piece of unwanted advice. While your dad and I heard a lot, the one we heard the most was, "get ready, your life is about to be over."
It was one that stuck with me for the majority of my pregnancy. It was something I battled inwardly for a long time. In fact, I even wrote about it in a letter to you before you were born. It felt like people expected me to lose my entire identity as I took on the role of mother. To make matters worse, I saw a lot of women do that very thing. I saw face truckloads of mom guilt when they practiced the tiniest bit of self care. I saw them brush off personal needs and wants.