Mommy Regrets

Dear Lane,

Sometimes I feel like a horrible mother.

You have slept in a pack 'n play for all except the first 3 1/2 weeks of your life. You don't have a nursery with pretty paint and decorations, and you might never get one. The counted cross-stitch that I made for you in still in a box. You've never seen it. Your current bedroom often smells of cigarette smoke because the neighbors smoke and it filters into your room...but we can't move you because there's not room for your pack 'n play in the other bedrooms. So your little lungs breathe that junk every single night.

By the time you were five months old you'd slept in 12 different places. You don't have very many toys yet and are bored with the ones you do have, so you often end up playing with things like paper towel rolls and magazines and chewing on your shoes and socks. People say you'd do that anyways, but I'm not sure, since you're my first baby. You're getting a new tooth, and I lost your favorite teether, so now you gnaw on the end tables and the chair legs instead of on a teething ring, since we only have one now and it's not your favorite.

Lane, you had a diaper rash for almost two months. We put every cream we could find on it and it only went away after I finally figured out maybe you were allergic to cinnamon, even cinnamon that you would get through my milk. Just the other day you got another horrible rash, and I think it's because of another spice I ate, although I'm not sure which one. Your little body has some dry patches on it and I can't tell if it's just dry skin or if it's an allergic reaction to something. You're getting that new tooth and I had some teething tablets to help with the pain, but they got recalled so I had to throw them away, and I don't speak enough of the local language to go and buy you something else to help ease the pain.

Baby, sometimes you really, really drive me crazy. I can tell that you're in pain or frustrated, or just exhausted, but all I can think of is how annoyed with you I am and how I just want you to stop whining. I could care less about what's really bothering you: I just want you to stop crying! I'm so, so selfish.

When we have our language lessons and your babysitter comes, I sit in the kitchen with our teacher and listen to you cry after I've left you. You usually have fun after a little while, but sometimes you don't...and I just have to leave you. And sometimes you want to do things that I just can't let you do, like eat dirt and rocks or pet a kitty that's hissing at you, and you get so mad at me when I make you stop.

Lane, you will probably never have roots like your daddy and I have, because we're raising you far, far away from all of your family. You might not get to see your grandparents more than once every couple of years, if that often. It breaks my heart that you already recognize the sounds of skype and know that you'll get to see your grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins through it. You probably won't even get to meet your cousin Maddox until you're both talking.

I'm so sorry that I'm so far from perfect for you. I'm sorry when I make mistakes and when I just don't care what you want or need because I'm too focused on myself. I'm sorry that you're going to be so far from all of your extended family and will know them better through a computer screen than you will in real life. I'm sorry for the times I'll disappoint you and the times I'll be too harsh on you, expecting you to be more grown up than you are. And I'm sorry that you won't have a better role model than me as to what a mother and a woman is supposed to be. Please, look to Jesus to fulfill you and teach you and help you, because he'll do a perfect job when I only let you down.

I love you,

Mommy

Mommy Regrets

In light of Lane turning 7 months old in 2 days and thus another blog post, today I decided that I wanted to look back at all of the Letters to Lane that I've written to her each month on her "birthday."

And then I burst into tears.

My baby girl is almost not a baby anymore. I lay in her room, nursing her at 5 or 5:30 a.m. each morning and I marvel at her beautiful body, at her smooth skin, at her sweet spirit. This morning, after she had finished and lay sleeping next to me, I placed my hand on her stomach, and her little hand came to mine and grasped it. And I thought, "Please, never let go."

I look at her, smiling up at me and babbling with her gummy grin, and I know that soon she'll have teeth, a sure sign that she's growing up.

I watch her as she pulls up on the furniture, rolls around on the floor, flicks at the bee on her strawberry teether, observes the pattern on the rug, or is fascinated by the wind blowing in her face from the ferry boat, and I know that all too soon she'll be distracted and enthralled by boys, makeup, clothes, and other less wholesome things than a new flavor of food or a new texture to feel.

I want to capture her sweetness and innocence in a bottle so that I can pull it out and bask in it anytime I want to over the rest of my life. I want to capture her curiosity and her joy, yet in every video or photo I take, something seems to be missing. I look at the videos, trying to decide which ones to keep and which ones to delete (because let's face it, I can't keep all of them: I don't have the space on my hard drive. And some of them can be pretty boring when I'm trying to get something good but she's not cooperating), but I don't want to delete any of them, because one day it's all I'll have to remind me of her. My baby daughter. The brilliant, sweet, happy, piece of my life that I never knew was missing until I had her.

I want to spend every second of my day holding her, spoon-feeding her peaches and zucchini, watching her discover the world. Listening to her babble, watching her put the 500th toy in her mouth and feel it with her tongue, holding her as she feels the water from the shower pouring over her head or as a gust of wind catches her off guard and she looks for it. Lying with her at 5 a.m. after I've fed her and she's still and content lying next to me, or watching her gaze intently, searching for the sound coming from my guitar as I practice songs for church each week. I want time to stand still until I've had my fill of her chubby cheeks, her belly and knees squeaking on the floor as she crawls and scoots around, and yogurt and peaches smeared on her face and the table in front of her.

She's growing up already. And it makes me sad.