Last week, you turned one. It feels like the fastest blink of the eye, but also like you’ve been here forever. Your life has changed mine; in a thousand ways, I will never be the same. Its hard to grasp all that has happened in a year, how we’ve grown and come to know each other within our little family. But what’s even more shocking to me is that while I will hang onto the memories of this year with every fiber of my being – you will never remember them. You’ll grow and we will continue to build on this foundation we’ve started, certainly. But you won’t remember these days at all. So I’d like to tell you about when we first met.
23 hours of labor, lots of pushing, and there you were in my arms on August 4, 2017. Warm and tiny, and unbelievably mine. I held you tight and stared at your nose – a perfect replica of your Daddy’s. Your eyelashes have been long and perfectly curled from day 1. I watched everyone we hold near and dear meet you and fall in love. We took you home and I felt the road had never been more bumpy and treacherous, but you were calm and sweet in your carseat.
We had no idea what we were doing, your father and I, but we loved you so much. I lamented to a friend that I felt like we were making so many little mistakes in our inexperience, I wished I had another baby I didn’t care about as much to make mistakes on – because I hated feeling like I had failed you. My logic was flawed, but the emotion still stands. In the course of the last year I have failed you so many times and my heart has ached with each instance.
Those first few weeks felt as long as a year themselves. Time was marked in minutes of breastfeeding and catnaps for us all. I have never felt like such a stranger in my own body as I healed from your delivery, but when I held you it felt like home. Everything could make me cry, and I felt confused by my own emotions (oh post partum hormones, I don’t miss your complete imbalance.) You were delightfully snuggly and loved resting your cheek on your hand or arm while you slept. You loved to be rocked and held to sleep, and didn’t sleep for long periods at a time for monthhhhhsssss. I thought those days would never end – days with me rocking you in your room to the sounds of ocean waves. But you sleep like a champ now, with no help from me (hallelujah for sleep training), and while I am grateful for sure – I find myself missing the quiet hours spent holding you close every now and then.
Just when things seemed to be settling down – you were sleeping better and growing so well – your eye happened. A this-doesn’t-seem-right moment at your 4 month well check and 1 month later we were at Vanderbilt for surgery. I’ve never felt more out of control or scared in my life. But, your contact and patching have given us more good days than bad days, and we are so thankful for the ability to help you see well. When you started crawling and walking perfectly on schedule, I cried. Motor milestones were something that might not be as easy for you because of how vision affects balance and walking – but it never slowed you down. Each step you bravely take is a tangible show of God’s faithfulness and ability to fix broken things. The fact that you love me deeply and are a pretty big Mama’s girl is another gift. When I have had to do hard things to take care of your eye, I have feared you would not like me – but God builds trust and love deeper than a contact lens struggle. On days where I felt at the end of my rope, God has shown Himself to be entirely present, intentional, and sovereign.
Mornings with you are among my favorite. You wake up for the day happy, jabbering, singing, and ready to play. You greet me with squeals when I walk into your room – reaching up to me – ready for a hug. A quick diaper/clothes change and the patch goes on, then its time for breakfast. Unfortunately, your current habit is to rub whatever you’re eating into your hair. Here’s hoping that’s short-lived. After filling your belly, we play or go for a walk. The morning light streaming through our living room window never fails to catch the tiny curls framing your cheeks just so – in a way that makes my breath catch in my throat.
The older you grow, I watch for signs of who you might become. You love to be near people you love – always coming back for cuddles or wanting me to see the world from right beside you. Will you be extroverted and always seeking community and relationship? You have always felt free to voice your opinions, and I pray that doesn’t change, but that you would also learn to be kind when doing so. You may make me crazy at times, but what joy there is in studying the way your mind works. I pray God helps us lead your feisty spirit to His. You are sassy and love to squeal (especially while eating in a crowded restaurant), and try hard to communicate with everyone around you. When Daddy breaks out his guitar, no one is more excited than you. At least once a day you point emphatically at the ekulele hanging on your wall, excited to grab and pluck with your rough baby hands. I hope you always delight in music, whether you play an instrument or not. Bath time proves you have a pretty short supply of patience – there is nothing more frustrating to you than to see the bath water running and not immediately be in the tub to play.
At bedtime, you and I snuggle for a bit while Daddy reads a story. Once you’re ready, you wiggle down and walk over to him, your feet soft on the hardwood floors in footed pajamas. Once in Daddy’s arms, you lay your head on his shoulder – sometimes only briefly – but every night I think my heart will explode right then and there. He is good, and safe, and kind – this Daddy of yours. Never forget that.
If I could step back to before you arrived and speak to that younger version of me, I would tell her this: You have no idea what wonderful things are ahead. You will be stretched and pushed more than you thought imaginable. You will have to dig deep and do hard things; you will ache inside so many times. But, oh, what joy is ahead. Rough edges of you will be sanded and made softer. You will understand grace so much more deeply. Your backbone will get stiffer – learning to stand tall through resistance. A part of you that is fiercely protective and blinded by love will wake up – it will be maddening and marvelous all at once. You will need to lean on others more than ever, and you will beg God to let you see more of Himself. And the best part? He will let you.
Elsie, meaning “God is bountiful.” Indeed, He is. Happy 1st Birthday, baby girl. You are known and loved.
willing hands 
This is beautiful!