Open when you become a parent
Nobody knows what they're doing. Not the books, not the nurses, not your pediatrician, and definitely not me the night we brought you home. I sat in the back seat with you the whole drive, watching you breathe, while your father drove eleven miles an hour on the highway. People honked. We didn't care.
I'm writing this the week you were born, so I can tell you something I won't remember to say when it's your turn.
You'll be tired in a way you didn't know existed. Tired in your bones. Tired enough to put the milk in the cupboard and the keys in the fridge. That's not failing. That's just the price of admission.
You'll also love someone so much it makes you a little dizzy. You'll stand over the crib at three in the morning and feel terrified and enormous at the same time. You'll understand, suddenly, why I called you every Sunday of your life.
Ask for help. Accept every casserole. Sleep when the baby sleeps, or at least sit down.
And on the hard nights, when you're sure you're getting it wrong, remember this: the fact that you're worried about being a good parent means you already are one.
I can't wait to meet them.
Mom
More letters on the public shelf, Write your own