1998: A Letter to My Expecting Mother
Mom,
I'm about to change a lot of things for you. You and Dad are busy now because you want to do everything right—hastily slapping speckled carpet down in the kitchen that you’ll regret when I’m a toddler. The house on Country Club Terrace isn't ready yet, and the new carpet is one of many impulsive decisions you’ll make in these nine months. But I’m coming, and you're putting carpet down so that the kitchen floor won't give me splinters, and you want to do everything right.
You listen to Mozart in the mornings and eat fish oil vitamins because you want to do everything right. You read to me as I sit peacefully inside of you because you know that prenatal reading exposure can drastically change the mental capacity of a child. You've changed your diet for me. You have stopped drinking wine. Your hands habitually return to a folded position on your stomach because you hold me, just like you'll hold me for the next several months in your stomach and the next several years in your arms. You want to do everything right.
In a few short weeks, I'll put you through forty-five hours of excruciating labor. You'll cry and scream and you'll almost pass out, but you'll keep counting to three and you'll keep breathing because you want to do everything right. You'll have your hair pulled back because your face is so sweaty and you'll be crushing Dad's hands as you push, but the bag is packed and my pink blanket is folded and soon, you'll wrap it around me because you want to do everything right.
And then, I'll be born. You will hold me gently and kiss my forehead. You'll bring me home and feed me and watch me as I sleep because you want to do everything right. You'll make your friends wash their hands before they hold me and you won't let the dog anywhere close to my crib. You'll watch me with every breath and never let me out of your sight because you want to do everything right.
Seven years will pass and I'll be off to second grade. You'll buy me a new backpack and pack my lunch every day because you want to do everything right. I'll cry every day and beg you not to make me go, but you make me because you love me and you pick me up every time I test positive for strep. You'll take my temperature and make me soup and beg me to make it one day. My teachers will offer to move me up a grade, but you refuse because you'll want me to become a leader and you want to do everything right.
Ten years later, I'll be starting my senior year of high school. You'll help me apply for scholarships and visit colleges and we'll spend days on instagram stalking the baseball players at different schools. You'll come to every soccer game and spell bowl competition just like you always have because you want to do everything right. But that won't be enough for me and I'll rebel. I'll sneak out and lie to you and I'll tell you that I hate you. You'll pray for me relentlessly and send me Bible verses because you want to do everything right.
You'll go into your room and break down because you didn't do enough. You wanted to do everything right, but you'll think about all the ways you've failed as a mother. You'll cry into your pillow and beat yourself up because maybe if you'd been a little more involved, a little more invested, maybe you wouldn't have a prodigal daughter who hates her mom. You'll scream in the car because all you ever wanted was to do everything right but all you can see is the darkness of the road in front of you and you think that if only you had done something right, your family wouldn't be in shambles. You only wanted to do everything right.
But one day, I'll come home. You'll greet me warmly and you'll celebrate my return. You'll praise Jesus for bringing me back and we'll catch up on the time that has passed. I'll thank you for never leaving me and I'll realize, finally, how you did everything right and how foolish I was for ever saying I hated you. You'll hug me even though you've never been a hugger and I'll tell you how much I love you and how I can never live without you. I'll remember the way you packed my lunch and read to me and made me soup and, even though you didn't feel like it, you always did everything right.
And hopefully one day, I'll be exactly like you.
I'm about to change a lot of things for you. You and Dad are busy now because you want to do everything right—hastily slapping speckled carpet down in the kitchen that you’ll regret when I’m a toddler. The house on Country Club Terrace isn't ready yet, and the new carpet is one of many impulsive decisions you’ll make in these nine months. But I’m coming, and you're putting carpet down so that the kitchen floor won't give me splinters, and you want to do everything right.
You listen to Mozart in the mornings and eat fish oil vitamins because you want to do everything right. You read to me as I sit peacefully inside of you because you know that prenatal reading exposure can drastically change the mental capacity of a child. You've changed your diet for me. You have stopped drinking wine. Your hands habitually return to a folded position on your stomach because you hold me, just like you'll hold me for the next several months in your stomach and the next several years in your arms. You want to do everything right.
In a few short weeks, I'll put you through forty-five hours of excruciating labor. You'll cry and scream and you'll almost pass out, but you'll keep counting to three and you'll keep breathing because you want to do everything right. You'll have your hair pulled back because your face is so sweaty and you'll be crushing Dad's hands as you push, but the bag is packed and my pink blanket is folded and soon, you'll wrap it around me because you want to do everything right.
And then, I'll be born. You will hold me gently and kiss my forehead. You'll bring me home and feed me and watch me as I sleep because you want to do everything right. You'll make your friends wash their hands before they hold me and you won't let the dog anywhere close to my crib. You'll watch me with every breath and never let me out of your sight because you want to do everything right.
Seven years will pass and I'll be off to second grade. You'll buy me a new backpack and pack my lunch every day because you want to do everything right. I'll cry every day and beg you not to make me go, but you make me because you love me and you pick me up every time I test positive for strep. You'll take my temperature and make me soup and beg me to make it one day. My teachers will offer to move me up a grade, but you refuse because you'll want me to become a leader and you want to do everything right.
Ten years later, I'll be starting my senior year of high school. You'll help me apply for scholarships and visit colleges and we'll spend days on instagram stalking the baseball players at different schools. You'll come to every soccer game and spell bowl competition just like you always have because you want to do everything right. But that won't be enough for me and I'll rebel. I'll sneak out and lie to you and I'll tell you that I hate you. You'll pray for me relentlessly and send me Bible verses because you want to do everything right.
You'll go into your room and break down because you didn't do enough. You wanted to do everything right, but you'll think about all the ways you've failed as a mother. You'll cry into your pillow and beat yourself up because maybe if you'd been a little more involved, a little more invested, maybe you wouldn't have a prodigal daughter who hates her mom. You'll scream in the car because all you ever wanted was to do everything right but all you can see is the darkness of the road in front of you and you think that if only you had done something right, your family wouldn't be in shambles. You only wanted to do everything right.
But one day, I'll come home. You'll greet me warmly and you'll celebrate my return. You'll praise Jesus for bringing me back and we'll catch up on the time that has passed. I'll thank you for never leaving me and I'll realize, finally, how you did everything right and how foolish I was for ever saying I hated you. You'll hug me even though you've never been a hugger and I'll tell you how much I love you and how I can never live without you. I'll remember the way you packed my lunch and read to me and made me soup and, even though you didn't feel like it, you always did everything right.
And hopefully one day, I'll be exactly like you.