Dear kiddo (aka Love Letter, vol 3)

Dear kiddo,

It’s funny / ironic / strangely apropos that I’m writing a letter you on my blog, since I hope, that at least for the moment, you have no idea that this sacred space for my words and my thoughts exists. I’ve shared far more of myself on these pages than I have with you, which isn’t a reflection of anything except my need to both explore and accept my broken parts more fully, while doing my best to prevent yours from breaking in the first place.

You and I. We’ve always had a complicated relationship. Your name, Ellie, took your dad and I three days to decide on after you were born. We had dozens of names on multiple lists and flashcards and spreadsheets, each with their own kind of ranking system, whether numbers or stars or colored letters. But when the doctors put you in my arms after they cut you from my stomach, I knew that you weren’t any of those names. I needed to get to know you a little bit before I could call you who you are. The name we ultimately gave you—Ellie—is a reminder of how you came to be. How I wished for you one balmy April night at your grandparents’ house, when, during our Passover seder, I opened their front door for Elijah to come in. Your dad and I had only been trying to get pregnant for a few months, but it felt like my body wasn’t cooperating. So standing there, with the humid Florida air tickling one side of my body, and my eyes darting around to make sure no mosquitoes were flying into the house, I prayed for you. I asked Eliyahu to grant our wish that next year, at that same time, your dad and I would be sitting at the seder table with a baby in our arms. That must have been one my truest, most selfless prayers, or at the very least, my loudest ones, because next year, there you were.

You were not an easy baby, though. You kept us up night and day with acid reflux, and a sleep pattern that we used to call the “Ellie Alarm.” Twenty minutes, on the dot, and you’d go from peaceful slumber to an all-out wail. We didn’t know about sleep training yet. Or that your pacifier was part of the problem. We were exhausted, and we were doing the best we could.

I think, in hindsight, I was exhausted for most of your early years. I was just surviving from one responsibility to the next. I worked too much, too long, too hard. Daddy was traveling for his job nearly all the time, and that took its toll on both of us. I loved you immensely, but couldn’t connect with you, or enjoy you, the way I wanted to…because I was so disconnected from myself.

When your brother was born, three-and-a-half years after you, I wanted things to be different. For some reason, he and I bonded differently. Maybe I was trying to make-up for my shortcomings with you. Maybe he was just an easier baby, without the acid reflux, without the Ellie Alarm, and so I didn’t have to fight as much to find the joy in those early days. He got the better parts of me, and I wish I could go back and give them to you, too. I’ve been quietly trying to earn your forgiveness ever since.

You and I. We are so much alike. You are creative and stubborn. You wear glasses. You adore animals. You feel like you don’t fit in, despite wanting to more than anything in the world. You have the kindest heart. You question everything. Including yourself. Including me.

I’ve been doing a lot of questioning, too, in last few years since your grandpa died. I have turned myself inside out, both literally and figuratively, wrestling with the ghosts and scars of my own childhood. Trying to unravel how they’ve shaped who I am today. I am still very much in the thick of this work, but feel more connected to you today than I ever have before. Maybe it’s because by examining my old wounds, I’m better able to help you navigate your fresh ones. I wish I could help you avoid them altogether, but as part of my own healing process, I have also learned that it’s not my job to protect you from the world. Your parents tried to do that with me. The had the best intentions, of course, but the container they built to “keep me safe” only served to keep me isolated. Hurting. Believing that I wasn’t enough, and at the same time, was far too much, for whatever was outside my artificial boundaries. I want to protect you from being protected, if that makes any sense. To give you the room to explore, to figure out who you are, to make your own mistakes. To know that I will always be there to catch you, but that whatever choices you make are your own.

As I’m trying to reparent myself, I am also trying to be a better parent to you.

I do not always get things right.

I do not always speak from love the way I’d like to.

I still get angry, and frustrated, and exhausted.

I need my alone time, and I know that can be hard for you.

But I am always trying.

And as I keep learning how to practice self-love and self-compassion, I am also learning how to love you the way that you need me to.

Please be patient.

You are worth the wait.