Everyone tells you it’s going to fly by…and believe it or not, I think everyone might be right. On one hand, I can’t remember my life before you…How can one tiny human make such a humongous impact? But on the other hand, I could have sworn I just brought you home from the hospital. 

Don’t get me wrong, the first year felt like a decade, but after that? It feels like someone pressed fast forward and suddenly you are wiggling the very first tooth that appeared 6 years ago, painting your own nails, and calling me “mom” instead of “mama”.

One of the gut wrenchingly beautiful but simultaneously heartbreaking aspects of parenting is that you vividly remember the “firsts” …but for the life of me, I cannot seem to remember the “lasts”. 

The last diaper I changed: Should have been monumental, but it just *poof* happened. 

The last time you needed help changing: Honestly, could not tell you. 

The last time you needed to be carried up the stairs: an absolute blur. 

The last time you needed any help at all feeding yourself: cannot recall.

But I think one of the wildest parts of the last six years, is that in all the time I spent preparing myself to meet you, I didn’t prepare myself to meet the person I would become after meeting you. It has been the honor of my life being able to grow up alongside of you. 

You think that you are a grown up when you drive a car, have a job, pay your mortgage and bills—but I have come to find that that is just “surface level” growing up. All very valid and necessary steps in life, but the saying “when a child is born, so is a mother” is incredibly true. You have held up a mirror to my soul and shown me all the ways I have left to heal, grow, and evolve. I may have given you the gift of life, but you gave my life new meaning.

As the years have passed, you have changed before our very eyes. Your once deliciously chubby legs (never understood this phrase until you had them…) have become long, lean dancing machines. Watching your adorable cheeks slowly melt away and become cheekbones happened so gradually I almost didn’t even notice the progression, until one day I looked over and a child was standing where I could have sworn a toddler had just been. Sometimes, I still see a glimpse of that toddler when you turn a certain way or give me a certain look. For a moment, I am transported back in time with you, and I have to catch my breath as I am jerked back into reality. 

I sometimes wonder, will this be how it always will feel? Will I catch a glimpse of 6 at 20? Will I see a hint of 16 at 36? I guess only time will be able to tell me.

As bittersweet as watching you grow and change has been, I have never been one to weep as the newborn clothes were put away or as the crib became a “big kid” bed. I try to soak up as much of you as I can in every stage, so I never feel like I havemissed a moment…but the moments seem to be going faster and faster these days.

I have so immensely enjoyed watching you become YOU. Your humor, your drive, your quick wit, and your kind empathetic demeanor never cease to amaze me. You know how to give the absolute best hugs, but also know how to walk away and ask for space when you need it. You have taught me so much more than I have taught you, and I am sure that will become increasingly true as we age and grow together. 

I always joked that I was never a great newborn mom, but once my kids could enjoy a glass of wine with me and we could chat, that would be my prime parenting stage…as crazy as that may seem, that vision of us sipping wine together has gotten me through some tough years with babies and tiny toddlers. Because I know that at the end of it all, this will have been a quick blip in our relationship. That the adolescent and teen years will feel interminable, but we will spend most of our relationship with you as an adult. That is what I work for most days, creating the groundwork for our next chapters. Ensuring that you know that I am fully human, and you are fully human, full of faults and emotions and explosions—and that it’s ok. We are ok. At the end of the day, we will sort it out and come out stronger on the other side of that fire. 

I hope in 10, 20, 30 years when “Mom” pops up on your phone (or I teleport to your house…who knows what future us will be up to) that your stomach doesn’t sink. That you don’t feel a knot in your stomach that travels to your throat. I hope you answer the phone, or the door, and feel like you can tell me the good, bad, happy, sad. I hope you know I won’t always know the answers, but I will always listen and see you for who you truly are.

So, as I tell you every night (whether you like it or not)—Thank you for being you. I love you so very much and cheers to 6 trips around the sun. Cannot wait to see what you do with this life you have been given. 

All my love,

Mom