Dear Mother

Dear Mommy,

Do you remember my first few hours on Earth? My first couple of days? That first weekend, month, slowly but quickly trickling into a year? The days before I was a ‘big kid’ with ‘big kid problems’. The days of lazy cuddles where nothing got done but where just holding me in your arms brought you a sense of peace and calm that could only be described as otherworldly. Well, because it was.

In those days, I felt you so connected to your maternal intuition.

Naturally, you had questions.

Almost just as naturally, everyone had opinions.

Your mother - my grandmother - had opinions. Your sisters - my aunts - had opinions. Your friends, the doctor, the lifeguard at the pool you went swimming at to get a break from the diapers and feedings - they all had opinions too.

But when you returned… back to me, in your breath and in the silence of our togetherness, all voices lifted and you knew what to do.

You knew when to feed me.

You knew when to hold me.

You knew when to show me something new and when to keep things familiar.

You knew what my cries meant.

You knew

And maybe it wasn’t just that you knew that left me feeling so safe - it was that you also trusted what you knew. That’s the biggest gift you gave me to launch into life.

I miss those days sometimes.

I know I’m bigger now. Now it’s not only about crying for a bottle or being cranky and in need of a nap.

It’s more now. I know I sometimes make you angrier and more anxious than you ever thought you could be. I test your limits - every day. I’m a big kid now. With big kid problems.

But remember, I was your baby. You’re still my Mommy.

And now, naturally, you have questions too.

Everyone has opinions. Your mother - my grandmother - sees me and worries I’ll cause the family too many problems if I don’t fit in like she’d like me to. She gives you her opinions.

Your sisters - my aunts - see me through their own lenses, each one sharing their ideas of why I struggle in school or how to solve my social anxiety. They all dump their opinions on you. I hear the voice notes. I see the texts.

Your friends, the doctor, the lifeguard at the pool you go swimming at to get a break from the chaos and stress - each have their own preconceived notions about parenting and boundaries and limit setting and electronics… as overwhelming as it may be, they all share their opinions too.

But beneath the mountain of opinions, buried and gasping for breath, is the mother who I know knows me better than anyone else. The mother who has been there before any of them, the mother who has seen me through it all.

Remember I am still your baby.

I need what you deeply know.

I need your care. Your tenderness. Your reassurance - not only to me, but to yourself - that you are my mother for a reason.

I need you to remember yourself, to make it simple between us again.

Can you play with me some more?

Can we sometimes talk about random things, without any agenda or goal?

Can we say good night each night, no matter what happened that day?

Can you remind me you love me, whether I’m in a place to hear it or not?

Can you show me that you still love yourself, that you still trust yourself, that you still know yourself as my mother, even when I make it more difficult than you ever thought possible?

Because - here’s a wise thing for me to say - just like the baby years didn’t last forever… those years won’t last forever either. I am on a journey of life, just like you. I won’t stay a kid or a teenager or even a young adult. In just a few short years, I will be in your shoes, in one way or another. Walk me through those years. You do it so well when I was a baby - every mistake, every misstep, every question that led you to trust yourself more, all helped make me who I am today.

The next few years may be more difficult than the baby years. But what I need from you is just the same. See me. Hear me. Feed me. Love me. Play with me.

On the other side, we are smiling. Congratulating ourselves and each other for a job well done, as we mature into the next stage of our mother-child relationship. And there we both know that no one - no one in this world - could have played “my mother” better than you.

Invitation to action: write a letter to yourself from your child. Then, tune into the version of you that was their mother when they were just a baby, and write a letter back. Those letters are just for you, a journal entry if you will, to reconnect with your inner Knowing today.