You’ve been on my heart today.
Our girl is 7 today. I wonder if you remembered. I wonder if as you woke up this morning, you paused to consider what that morning was like for you 7 years ago. You could no longer will your child to stay where she was, the closest she’d ever physically be to you. On that day, your body brought forth this child, a tiny squirmy little girl. I wonder what your heart felt and how you coped or justified what happened soon thereafter.
I wish I knew you. I wish I could hear about what it was like to carry her in your womb. I wish we could sit down as sisters and you’d tell me what you did to manage the nausea and how you saw your belly move as she tossed and turned inside you. You endured great pain for her sake; I know the pain myself. You heard her gasp for her first breath; you heard her first cry. Did she change your life? Was every day after that day different for you?
It’s the middle of the night where I’m sure you are right now. Before your body surrendered to sleep tonight, did you wonder about where she might be? Maybe quiet tears no longer fall; maybe they never did; maybe your eyes swelled up and your head ached as much as your heart did. There’s no way we can know; we don’t even know your name.
Words in a language that is not your own that you likely will never read are all I get to share. I knew that would be the case when your child became my child. But, that doesn’t make it easy. In fact, I think it has been getting harder as she grows. She calls me Mama, she’s so fully mine. And, yet, I know she’s also yours, and I wish you could admire her with me—her dimples, her determination, her love for her big sister, her belly laugh when she plays with her daddy.
I’m sorry that you’ve missed the last 7 years with her. It grieves me when I pause to consider how you’ll miss the next 7 and the next 7 after that. The finality of that makes my chest hurt for you. She’s amazing, this girl. Your daughter is truly amazing, and you don’t even know her name. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that’s the case. I’m sorry for her even more as she feels that loss; you have to know that it is a real loss for her. And, when I see her hurt over her story, right now in seemingly small fleeting ways, I feel a righteous anger. She did nothing to deserve that hurt.
I love this child. I love your child. She has changed my life, and every day since the day she became mine has been different. The anger I feel over what she has endured is balanced by an overwhelming gratitude and joy that I have the honor endure it with her.
On this day, as we celebrate over her favorite meal and an ice cream cake, as we see her face light up as she opens her gifts, as I have the joy of kissing her goodnight and teasing her about how she better stop growing and stay my baby forever, I want to say something to you but I’m not sure what. I don’t want to thank you—that seems so trivial and doesn’t seem fair. I don’t want to apologize—I didn’t wrong you. Wherever you are, even as you dream, I’ll pray you hear my heart and all the mixed up things within it. You are a part of something amazing, something world changing by being a part of this girl. And, I’ll always make sure she knows that even though she’ll never know you and as she processes all the mixed up things within her own heart.
Happy birthday to all of us.
Kelly