Dear Emma

My darling daughter, my Sunshine, the light in my life...

Mommy is struggling.  I try not to show it, especially to you.  I get this Mommy-the-Superhero mentality.  I want you to think the world of me.  I want you to trust me always.  I want you to feel protected, safe, free to be vulnerable...and yet somehow, I feel that by being vulnerable in front of you myself hinders that.

I am wrong, sweet girl.

One day you will be a mother and what a joy it will be (for you and for me!).  But one day you will also feel this agonizing, intense, bittersweet weight of feeling like a failure day in and day out.  That feeling of not quite measuring up because you want the absolute best for you child but you are human, and by nature, humans fail.  It hurts.  My heart physically hurts for you.

Friday morning I dropped you off at school.  You were smiling and talkative as we walked down that same hall we've walked down hundreds of times, every Monday, Wednesday, Friday.  The moment we arrived to your class you grew quiet.  You held on to my neck, not too tight, but not with an urgency to let go either.  You went to your favorite teacher, Ms. Melissa, but reluctantly.  I could see the desire to leap back in my arms in your body language and your eyes were curved downward in that sad sort of way.  I said my "i love you's" and "i'll miss you's" then darted out the door in hopes your attention would turn towards snacks and friends, bringing that radiant, contagious smile back to your face.  I popped into the bathroom before leaving and something internally drew me back to the tiny window in your classroom door.  You had your back to me, your fingers slowly, methodically picking up whatever snack was laid before you.  But I could tell.  Your shoulders drooped, your head hung ever so slightly, and without even seeing your face I knew there were tears rolling down your cheeks.  Ms. Melissa caught me peeking and confirmed my suspicions.  As you ate your snack, your friends squealing, and arguing, and playing around you, there you were, lost in your sadness.  This wasn't the typical separation anxiety.  We've dealt with our fair share of those days in multiple stages of your just-shy-of-three-years.  No, this was pure sadness that I was leaving.  You even asked me to stay and if I would come back for you.  There I stood, unable to come to you, knowing your tears fell softly onto your fruit loops, but also know that if I did come to you it would most surely delay the school day and your transition into those smiles we all love.

I left the window after watching for nearly 5 solid minutes.  I was headed to a much needed morning run.  I cried too.  The moment my car door shut, before I could even escape the car parking lot, I cried.  My own shoulders drooped, matching my heart, heavy, broken, longing to comfort you.

I hate to see you sad.  I hate to see you hurting.  I hate knowing this transition we are all going through as a family is breaking you in ways I may never understand.  I've never been a child on the opposite side of this heartache, of this newness, of this restructuring of our life and our family.  I cannot say with certainty that I understand how you're feeling or what you're thinking.  I can most definitely relate.  I can empathize.  I can study you, learn you, understand YOU and help guide you the best I can.  But I cannot protect you from this.  I can only love you through it.  I can only show grace and hope that grace covers us both.  I can only show you dignity and strength in the midst of a storm.  I can only show you forgiveness and compassion.  I can only show you how to rise, every day, even when you feel you have no strength, no power, no courage.  I can only show you how to put one foot in front of the other and take on a mentality that nothing and no one will or can hold you back.  I can only show you how real God is, and how desperately I need Him because without Him I will most definitely fail.  I can show you that strength often comes in the form of vulnerability and that tears are healing not harmful.

I cannot protect you.  Not always.  Not in some of the most important ways.  But I can and will love you through anything and everything.

You won't understand why this happened for a while.  You may not even understand when you do know and understand.  You may not like the reasons behind it.  You may not grasp the dynamics.  You may not even get an accurate portrait.

My hope, above all, is that I show you what real love, real life, real freedom looks like.  I pray that you have a tender heart, ready, waiting, willing to have an open mind and open arms to human faults and failures.  I hope you see past the pain, the heartache, the mistakes, the mess ups, the bad decisions, and wrong choices, and see the Heart deep within.  I hope you're discerning, and wise, and compassionate.  I hope that I am all these things to you and for you.

I am so very sorry we are here.  I am so very sorry this heartache is so real in me, in your daddy, in our family...in you.

But, Baby Girl, we will be better for it.  We will be courageous.  I will follow your lead, your gorgeous smile, your bright blue eyes - deeper than the oceans are wide and so full of life.  I won't and can't be a perfect mother, but I will strive to be my best for you always.

I love you, so very much it cannot be measured....to the moon and so much farther...always.

Don't judge me to harshly, sweet girl.  But if the time comes that you do, I will love you no less than the day I first laid eyes on you.  The day I asked the nurses "is she real?" because you, my love, were too perfect to be MINE, my reality.  I am blessed beyond measure to be your mommy.  It is a God-given gift, a responsibility I will never take lightly.  You are a joy to all who behold you.  Never forget that.  Ever.

You are brave.  You are bold.  You are beautiful...always.

Love always,

Mommy