Dear Baby,

Here I am, six months in, staring at you.

Your eyes find mine, and that toothless smile of yours starts to stretch wide. You have arm rolls and a round belly and a head full of hair. Some days you look a lot like me. But on most days, you look just like your daddy. 

I kind of feel like we’re best friends now. We spend a lot of time together (like, a lot) while I’m still settling into a new normal. That transition has been tougher than anticipated, because I want to hang onto parts of who I am as me, while growing into who I am as your mama. We’ll get there, I know it. For now, I take you to meetings sometimes and sneak in my work while you’re napping. Or I’ll write into the early hours of the morning, when you’re sound asleep, and my mind can have some solo time. I have pumped in boardrooms and bathrooms and behind all sorts of corners to create food for you. You probably won’t really appreciate it until you’re all grown, but motherhood is selflessness to the fullest.

The mama fog has faded away, and I’ve forgotten how hard some of those early days were. I already want seven more of you. Are you up for that many siblings?? I want to kiss you and smother you and remind you of how grateful I am. You are my world.

The gratitude is so overwhelming that somehow my mind feels awake each morning, when your sleepy eyes find mine.

I am still tired. Does that ever go away? I’m not sure. I will never sleep a full night without tiptoeing into your room to feel your heart beating. But the gratitude is so overwhelming that somehow my mind feels awake each morning, when your sleepy eyes find mine. My heart is never quite prepared for that moment. Six months in, and I cannot remember a day without those hopeful eyes.

You have taught me so much already. Your belly laughs remind me this world is more happy than sad, no matter the day. Your tantrums remind me it’s okay to cry, even for no reason. Your sick days remind me our bodies are more capable of healing than we think.

I have skipped meals, and showers, and date nights with your dad. I have lines and bumps and bruises from creating you. I have cried, and pleaded, and prayed for strength on the days I miss the old me.

In so many ways, motherhood is harder than I thought it would be. The sleepless nights, the questionable emotions, and the sheer panic I feel while trying to get out the door with all of your stuff. The dreams of quiet brunches and family road trips and traveling the world together sometimes look more like chaos than calm getaways right now. I get stressed and anxious and frustrated.

But in more ways, motherhood is my magic. Everyday feels like the best day ever. Truly. And you have taught me how to find the light when everything goes dark.

You are joy, and hope, and happiness, and health. You are peace, and prayers, and love, and answers. You are a lifetime of dreams.

So here we are, six months in. You give me the ability to question nothing even when I want to question everything. You remind me of who I used to be before the world shared its fears and insecurities. And you bring me back to this beautiful moment in time, when all I knew was the goodness in people. And that, sweet boy, is the greatest gift of them all.

Read my letter to Evan Grey (before he arrived!) here

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