A love letter to my daughter, before she is born

My dearest daughter, my sweet Maggie, my last baby,

Right now, I hold you safe, nestled under my heart, where you are patiently waiting for some secret signal that will let you know it's time to meet the people in this world who are already so madly in love with you, face to face.

(Either that, or mama is having you officially evacuated on May 25th. Your choice, sweetheart.)

I have spent the past six years dreaming about you, and the past nine months in awe as you formed into reality. I know the biology, but love, when it is happening, it always feels like magic, pure and simple. And after six long years, and nine short months, I will be holding you in a matter of days, and even as I write this, my heart beats faster at the thought, and I cry.

Your brother calls you "darling," and your daddy? I fear he is already a lost cause, fallen at your feet before he even sees you.

I've thought a lot about what it will be like, raising a girl. How I should handle that. What I will tell you. But there's really no planning in parenting, and I know that how we raise you will depend a lot upon who you are, what kind of girl you grow to be...what kind of human you become.

And I realize that, although I dream of you, I cannot and will not dream for you. Your dreams, like your heart, will be your own.

We do want you to have values. We want you to always be true, and genuine, and remember those less fortunate than you. We want you to love others and to love yourself, because what we want for you, our daughter, our only girl, is for you to grow into the woman God intended you to be. We want you to find your voice, your own voice, but we want you to use it for your purpose, not ours.

I want whatever you do to ring with authenticity and purpose, whether that purpose seems grand or seems small. Because if it matters to you, it matters to us.

If you are born to lead, we will cheer you on, and if you tend towards serving, we will help you find an outlet for that, too. If you are born to teach, we will love your confidence. If you are born to learn, like your brother, we will stand in awe of your curiosity - and hope that, even as you learn the science you leave room for the magic, too, because there is room for both. If you are, like your daddy, a born warrior, we will embrace your determination and strength, and if, like your mama, you are made to nurture, we will praise your heart - and help you learn to protect it as well as we can.

And if you are born to breathe fire, my love, we will celebrate your fierce spirit and watch as you set the world ablaze.

But no matter what, wherever you go, whomever you become, you will always be greeted with open arms and parents who will always welcome you home, where you will always be loved, just for being.

Also, no hurry...but you can come at any time. We are ready.

Sort of.

Love,

Mama

To Our Son, While You Are Still Our One And Only

Our sweet boy,

Mama and Daddy are counting off the days until your sister gets here...and at the same time, we are savoring the time we have left with you, while you are still the whole entirety of our universe. We are trying our best to cut out the "not now!" and the "hold on!" as if those sayings are part of a reservoir we may need to draw from later...because I know we will need to draw on it later.

But first, thank you.

You were the one who made me a mama. It was you that first laid in my womb, snug under my heart, and then later, laid on my chest, but still, snug, under my heart and always in my heart. I was scared, and clumsy, and clueless...

...I still often am.

And you made Daddy into the man he is. The first time he held you in his strong arms, those arms grew even stronger, and somehow more tender, and he turned to me, and said, "He's so perfect, honey, you did such a good job, we have a perfect boy," in a voice choked with emotion.

And we do.

And although we have made a lot of mistakes - God knows we have - we know that we've managed to succeed in one area. You are confident in the love we have for you. When we first told you that you would be a big brother, you asked me if I would grow a second heart, for the second baby, because you were so certain that you occupied all of the one that I have.

And you are right.

But my heart will remain singular, as will Daddy's. So let Mama explain something to you.

A parent's love is elastic, and grows rather than shifts. I need you to understand that, especially once Sister gets here, and it seems as though she may have more of our attention.

And it will seem that way because she will have more of Mama's time at first, my sweet boy, and that's just a fact. Newborns are messy and needy, and she will keep me busy. She will have more of my time, but she will not have more of our hearts.

It's important to us that you know that.

We are so excited to see you become a big brother. The love you show for your sister even now, before she is born, delights us. You've been wondering how to convert the house to solar power since Christmas, worried that she may want to play with cords. You've asked that Daddy remove all magnets from the house, since they are such bad choking hazards.

You've also threatened to lasso her if she gets "too sassy" with you, but I suppose some of that is to be expected.

And so, in these last weeks, when it's still just us, we want you to know something else.

We would have never been brave enough to do this again, if it weren't for our love for you. The pregnancy, the delivery, the breastfeeding and sore boobs and sleepless nights and the worry, my goodness, the worry...the late nights and early mornings and the midnight ER runs because of fevers, the strict adherence to a nap schedule because of a tiny tyrant and the fount of projectile vomiting little ones have a habit of morphing into at 3 a.m. We couldn't do the agony of scraped knees and lost teeth and the first time a child comes home with hurt feelings...

And this time, we can't claim ignorance. We actually know what we're getting ourselves into.

But we know that all of that, all of it, is nothing compared to that first, wide-mouthed, gummy kiss. Or chubby arms outstretched from the floor, asking to  be held. Or the first time she will say "Mama..." Did I ever tell you about the first time you said it? I remember it so clearly because, you see, my heart stopped.

These last seven years are an endless string of those heart-stopping moments. Moments that made our breath catch, moments where we laughed until we cried. There has been 7 years of dancing in the kitchen and blowing bubbles on the deck, of bubble baths that ended in tidal waves and watching your perfect face as you sleep.

Some nights, your daddy and I lay together, holding hands, and we ask, "What's your favorite thing that he is doing right now?"

There has been seven years of you, son. You came along and made us a family. We need you to remember that. You delight our very souls.

You've made us brave enough to do it all again, because when we look at you, our own sweet boy, we know it's all worth it.

Thank you.

With all of our love, from our singular but growing hearts,

Mama and Daddy

To The Mama Who Decided To Medicate...Or Not

I know.

I didn't used to know, of course. I used to be one of those smug, privileged moms who could shake my head sadly, cluck in faux sympathy and wisdom, and say, "We over-medicate our children." (See how I said 'we' and 'our'? That's to take the some of the sting out of it...but not all of it. No. Because my child was certainly not in those numbers.)

But I know now.

I know you've done it all. You've gathered up all the courage in your sore, sad heart and taken your precious little one to the doctor and have spit out the words, dry as cotton, hard as lead: "I am concerned."

And you have followed up on that concern. I know you have. And when the concern is finally pinpointed, when you've learned to shrug off all the smug "Why do we label our children?"-ers (I was also one of those) and "Well, he/she doesn't seem XYZ to me"-ers and go for what you need in order to help your child, I know you've followed up on that, too. With therapies. And books. And more books. And more therapies. And school meetings. And support plans.

I know all of that.

I know, too, that it's been a journey both joyous and grieved. I know you have watched your child's hard-earned progress, celebrated that...only to realize that while your sweet one has finally mastered a skill or a lesson, his or her classmates have continued to progress, too, and are light years ahead, and suddenly, and again, that gap seems insurmountable.

I know the joyous text you send to your husband, your mom, your whomever (and Lord, I hope you have a whomever) because your child performed some life skill or made some new connection and you are amazed and excited and know that person will be, too.

I also know the 3 a.m. Googling and the harsh bark of a sob that comes unexpectedly when you watch the small, straight, brave back of your child as he gets on the school bus because that courage - where did he get that?

I know what it feels like, to remember that this is not "just a phase" or a stage your child will outgrow, and to be reminded that all the support and therapy in the world will still not make this world easy for him. And that, in many ways, the older he or she gets, the more apparent his or her differences may get, and it doesn't seem fair.

And I know what it's like to spend years working with the same doctors, the same therapists, and to trust them. And what it is like to realize you have insight and instinct, too, and although you don't have any fancy letters behind your name, you are an expert on your child, and your input is valuable. I know how empowering that can be, and scary, too - especially the first time you look one of those trusted, valued, respected doctors in the eye and say, calmly, "No. I don't agree with that."

And finally, I know what it's like for one of those trusted, valued, respected doctors to look you in the eye and say, "We need to consider medication."

I know you were expecting it. I also know it hit you in the pit of your stomach and the center of your being.

You weren't excited. You weren't throwing up your arms and saying, "FINALLY! I HAVE WANTED TO MEDICATE THIS CHILD OF MY HEART FOR YEEEEEEEARS!" You didn't think it was a magic fix-all, or that it could replace the hours of therapy, or the days and nights filled with that hard-hewed patience that you've learned even though "patience" was never before in your nature.

You didn't once sigh with relief and think, "Good. My job here is done."

Instead, you shook with the enormity of the decision. You listened to both the pros and the cons. You discussed it with your partner, if you are lucky enough to have one, and the other caregivers in your child's life...but you didn't discuss it with anyone else. Because you know that you would be flooded with the faux concern, the smug "Medication isn't always the answer" moms, the moms who are suddenly full of homeopathic remedies and suggestions of more activity - the moms whose children are neurotypical and progressing well and the women who don't have children at all but still have all the answers, and the moms whose children have children of their own and like to remind you that things like autism didn't exist back in their day.

I know about the flood of judgement. And I know you don't need it.

What I don't know is what you've decided to do. I don't know whether you decided to medicate or not. And I don't need to know.

Because I know whatever decision you made, you made because it was the best one for your child.

So keep it up. You are doing fine.

I know you are, even when it feels like you aren't.