Dear Toddler,
A quarter of a decade ago, on New Year’s Day, you were born. Pink and perfect and screaming proudly, “I am here and I am tiny but I will change your world.” And you stayed true to your promise. On that day, everything changed. Life lit up like a birthday cake. Rainbows reappeared amidst beige horizons.
If I were a better mother, maybe I would have gotten you a half a cake on this half-birthday, but I didn’t think ahead.
I love you to pieces.
Insecurely and forever yours,
Mommy
Dear Cats,
We are coming home today! Hope you had a nice vacation from us and the girls. Hope you’ve taken good care of the place. I know you might be a little mad that we left you, but know that most cats and dogs are boarded at a kennel during these times. And you are lucky that you get to stay home. So, don’t be mad. When we open the door and drag the babies and the suitcases in, come running. Nuzzle against our legs. Purr loudly. Pretend you missed us.
Insecurely yours,
Mommy
Dear Baby #4,
Daddy says I’m not allowed to have you. That only three kids fit in a rental car. Your Daddy is so sane and practical. And unfair. I will work on him.
Insecurely yours,
Mommy
Dear Baby #3,
You don’t exist yet. Not even a tiny cluster of cells. But I’m beginning to think about you. Your sisters are a handful and yet I crave more. More chaos. More cheeks. More.
Insecurely yours,
Mommy
Dear Fellow Mothers,
Stop telling your labor stories to women who are about to give birth. And if you must tell them, lie. Lie big time. Tell them that your doctor was a genius. That the nurses were sent from heaven. That the contractions were mere twinges. That your hospital bag was perfectly packed. That the epidural worked like a charm. That all tears were happy ones. That your husband was a cheerleader. That the baby came out pink and screaming and got a perfect 10.
Lie. Or zip it.
It just scares people. And childbirth is scary enough on its own. No one needs to know how many stitches you got or how many times you needed to push. No one needs to know how miserable your contractions were or that you made it to seven centimeters before getting your epidural. No one needs to hear that you had an emergency C. No one needs to know that the cord was wrapped around your baby’s neck and she didn’t cry for the first fifteen seconds of her life.
No one needs to know about the catheter or the mucous plug or those disposable undies that you wore. No one needs to know these things.
These things make people nervous. Just like this letter does.
Insecurely yours,
Aidan
Dear Toddler,
