a letter to my daughter: we will dance, darling.
I cried so hard when we found out you were a girl.
My girl. My dream. My dream girl, in my womb.
I couldn’t wait to give birth to you.
After a rough pregnancy, after turning you manually in my womb so you were head down, after all the throwing up and pain and near immobilization, you announced that you were coming four days “late ” with a small splash of water. And then within 45 minutes, I was on my hands and knees, moaning like an animal. You were coming fast. You made your way down beautifully. You were so good at being born, my darling.
We touched your head, both your daddy and I, as you waited patiently for me to push you free. Your teeny, tiny curls floated in water. All of heaven held it’s breath, and in a rush of air and strength, you emerged.
My baby girl. My baby girl. I cried it out, over and over as I held you.
I have not stopped crying since you came to us.
I know you have suffered, I know you are strong, I know you have the heart of a warrior—you are truly an otherworldly angel. The way you smile, even when you’re nauseous and dry heaving. The way your big almond shaped eyes get puffy and still when you’re in pain. You look right into me. You take my breath away. Sometimes I have to close my eyes and weep into your neck because my love for you is so powerful. It makes me ache to see you in pain.
But you always pull through. You’re my dream girl, my dreamer, my queen, the best baby in the whole world. I’ve given you the longest nicknames.
My beloved, I will take care of you. I will always take care of you. It is my honour to wash you, to rub cream into your curls, to turn you over during the day and night because you can’t do it on your own. I love changing your sweaty and drool soaked t-shirts and dressing you for the day. I love gently nudging your little feet into splints at nighttime so they don’t seize up. I love brushing your teeth and rinsing your mouth, applying balm to your smiling lips and giving you nutrients through your feeding tube.
It is my great joy to change your diapers and apply cream to that little bed sore, to wipe the drool from your face, to rub the sleep from your eyes, to itch you where you might have an itch.
It is a gift to be able to spend all day with you, even when we do nothing but smile at each other over the iPad screen. You are happy. I am happy.
Even though I have been weak and crushed, I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Your life is far more valuable than we know.
Don’t ever let any doctor, any person, any one at all tell you otherwise with their words or looks that you may not even understand.
Your life has meaning and purpose and it is full to bursting with beauty.
Your terminal diagnosis doesn’t shape your value. We are all fading away, like the grass, like the drooping daisies.
We are all a part of this Kingdom, the one that looks upside down and sideways, the one that is here and now and not yet.
But you my girl, have a special place in this Kingdom. You are one mighty queen.
I am blessed because of you.
I am blessed to be your mama.
I am blessed to be the one that carries you.
I am blessed to walk with you and your daddy on this road.
I am blessed to be married to your daddy.
I am blessed when I hold his hand in the thin places.
I am blessed because you were chosen to come to life in the dark of my womb.
I am blessed that your sister or brother now shares that same space, soaking up all your sweetness, I’m sure.
I am blessed, because I get to see the face of Jesus every day.
It’s on every inch of your body. It reverberates from every hair on your head, every tiny half moon nail clipping.
And I have everlasting joy, knowing I will dance with you one day.
My beloved girl, I can’t wait to dance with you—without fear of fracturing your bones, free from struggle, free from the threat of choking.
We will dance.