My dearest peapod,
I have learned in my lifetime that you can read a novel by looking into one's eyes. I hope to raise you in a way that speaks of compassion and understanding so that when you look into another's eyes, you can see their joys, their aches, and their fears.You learn so much from others when you read their soul through the beauty of their irises. Looking into yours, I see my own eyes looking back. I read the excitement when you recognize your father's voice or you hear my laughter.
I often feel when I'm talking to people that I cannot allow them to see my eyes out of fear that they will judge me. I fear they will read too much and not understand the sorrows and loves of my life. But above all, I fear they will just not care to read. But, not you my bright-eyed child. Your eyes are open and ready to read my soul from cover to cover. You are excited to experience life for the first time, and I long to see the world through your innocent eyes. Never lose that fervor to learn about others. It will take you far in this life baby blue!
"Here's looking at you kid,"
Mommy
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Letter 7
Dear Peapod,
Hi. I'm beginning to realize I wasn't meant to be a teacher. After all, how can I teach you when there are things I need to teach myself, that I need to realize, but that I refuse to learn. How many times have I heard, "You just need to learn to deal with it-get a grip," over and over? But baby, that's something I still have not learned. I have not learned how to comfort you in all the ways you need to be comforted. I have not learned how to balance my family, my extended family, maintain friendships, be successful in my career, give my all to the Lord....I mean, look at that list as an example. The Lord should be first, and right now, all I can think about is me. So today, don't follow my example--it's not a good or healthy one. I'll try to be better tomorrow. Just know that I love you and am trying to give you my best every day.
Love,
Your Retired Teacher
Hi. I'm beginning to realize I wasn't meant to be a teacher. After all, how can I teach you when there are things I need to teach myself, that I need to realize, but that I refuse to learn. How many times have I heard, "You just need to learn to deal with it-get a grip," over and over? But baby, that's something I still have not learned. I have not learned how to comfort you in all the ways you need to be comforted. I have not learned how to balance my family, my extended family, maintain friendships, be successful in my career, give my all to the Lord....I mean, look at that list as an example. The Lord should be first, and right now, all I can think about is me. So today, don't follow my example--it's not a good or healthy one. I'll try to be better tomorrow. Just know that I love you and am trying to give you my best every day.
Love,
Your Retired Teacher
Monday, March 28, 2011
Letter 6
Dear Miss Peapod,
I have now been writing to you for a week and have discovered it's extremely therapeutic for me. When I first found out the seed had been planted and you would be an early Christmas present for me, never did I stop to think of the consequences of that gift. I did not think it would be difficult to have someone else care for you during the day. When the morning dawned that I watched your father cart you out the door so that I was left to return to the job, I felt an overwhelming feeling of shame and regret because I not only chose to continue my career but because someone else was being charged to raise you. I felt once again that you were being ripped from my core, but this time, there was no epidural, no pain reliever. I mean, after all, your journeys with Stephanie far out-weigh the amount of time we are left to journey together. Writing to you eases that pain for me. Nothing can replace the time we lose together every day, hence the reason I still cry and wonder if I made the right decision in returning to work. Yet, I know I am doing my best to provide the best and most stable life for you. You, my good-natured peapod, come first. I am charged with providing you the best shelter, the best nutrients, and the best education available. To provide, I must be like the Ant in the old fable and continue to work without ceasing.
Truly missing you peapod,
Mommy
I have now been writing to you for a week and have discovered it's extremely therapeutic for me. When I first found out the seed had been planted and you would be an early Christmas present for me, never did I stop to think of the consequences of that gift. I did not think it would be difficult to have someone else care for you during the day. When the morning dawned that I watched your father cart you out the door so that I was left to return to the job, I felt an overwhelming feeling of shame and regret because I not only chose to continue my career but because someone else was being charged to raise you. I felt once again that you were being ripped from my core, but this time, there was no epidural, no pain reliever. I mean, after all, your journeys with Stephanie far out-weigh the amount of time we are left to journey together. Writing to you eases that pain for me. Nothing can replace the time we lose together every day, hence the reason I still cry and wonder if I made the right decision in returning to work. Yet, I know I am doing my best to provide the best and most stable life for you. You, my good-natured peapod, come first. I am charged with providing you the best shelter, the best nutrients, and the best education available. To provide, I must be like the Ant in the old fable and continue to work without ceasing.
Truly missing you peapod,
Mommy
Friday, March 25, 2011
Letter 5
Dear Miss Peapod,
Today's lesson is about being a perfectionist--don't be one. Not that it's not great to strive for success because it is, but there is a difference in setting goals to succeed and setting goals too high for anyone other than the Lord to reach. Don't be like me in this regard. I wake in the morning to remember the failures and mistakes of the day before rather than arise to think of the good the Lord can do through me for the day. I dwell on the "what might have beens" rather than the "what can I do today to better tomorrow." As your PawPaw sang, and yes this is a borrowed lyric, "Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way..." I am not perfect, and my mistakes are limitless. But, I look at you, my sweet, shiny, gassy peapod, and I know I created the most perfect thing possible (with the help of the good Lord and your daddy of course). If only I could stop dreading my failures and remember as long as I have you, I am perfect.
Love you perfectionista,
Mommy
Today's lesson is about being a perfectionist--don't be one. Not that it's not great to strive for success because it is, but there is a difference in setting goals to succeed and setting goals too high for anyone other than the Lord to reach. Don't be like me in this regard. I wake in the morning to remember the failures and mistakes of the day before rather than arise to think of the good the Lord can do through me for the day. I dwell on the "what might have beens" rather than the "what can I do today to better tomorrow." As your PawPaw sang, and yes this is a borrowed lyric, "Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way..." I am not perfect, and my mistakes are limitless. But, I look at you, my sweet, shiny, gassy peapod, and I know I created the most perfect thing possible (with the help of the good Lord and your daddy of course). If only I could stop dreading my failures and remember as long as I have you, I am perfect.
Love you perfectionista,
Mommy
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Picture for Letter 4
Letter 4
Dear Miss Peapod,
Bathing you last night reminded me I need to teach you about corners. As I was lathering the cloth that would scrub away the problems of the day, I was reminded of my own father at bathtime. He would take the rag, place the center in the palm of his strong hand, and rotate it so that every corner oozed with suds. He would proceed to polish us all and make us appear new again, ready to take on the world the next morning. If he wouldn't have covered all the corners, a piece of us would have gotten missed, and he knew how important it was to not cut the corners. So, I share with you now my sweet girl, don't cut the corners in life. Don't try to take the shortcut, there's no telling what you might miss along the way. You may get dirty along the way, but I can guarantee you will learn from the experience, wash yourself of the bad, and embrace life with the same patience your PawPaw took to polish yourself like new again.
I love you my shiny pod,
Mom
Bathing you last night reminded me I need to teach you about corners. As I was lathering the cloth that would scrub away the problems of the day, I was reminded of my own father at bathtime. He would take the rag, place the center in the palm of his strong hand, and rotate it so that every corner oozed with suds. He would proceed to polish us all and make us appear new again, ready to take on the world the next morning. If he wouldn't have covered all the corners, a piece of us would have gotten missed, and he knew how important it was to not cut the corners. So, I share with you now my sweet girl, don't cut the corners in life. Don't try to take the shortcut, there's no telling what you might miss along the way. You may get dirty along the way, but I can guarantee you will learn from the experience, wash yourself of the bad, and embrace life with the same patience your PawPaw took to polish yourself like new again.
I love you my shiny pod,
Mom
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Letter 3
Dear Peapod,
As you will know by the time you (hopefully) read these letters, you were my first (and if the Lord doesn't give me anymore, my only) child. I knew naught of what it would mean to be called, 'Mom.' I mean, I knew the basics: change you when there's an abhorrent odor reaking from your body and/or diaper, give you a pacifier (or passey, or Nuk, or BaBa, or plug, or whatever the darn think is called) when your screams fill the air, bathe you when I can no longer tell the color of your skin, and hold you when you need to be comforted. But all that aside, that's not the true definition of 'Mom.' Anyone can do those things--even your uncle that is deathly afraid he will break you if he looks in your direction. No, so far what I have learned about being a 'Mom' is this: it is a lifelong role that I will always question and has nothing to do with the fact you sprouted out of my body. I will be one of the primary peeps to shape your life, so I have to live a life that's worthy of shaping you. Not only do I get to be the lucky one to comfort you, I have to recognize when you need to be comforted and when to allow you the freedom to declare your independence and soar to your own heights. Not only do I get to change you and bathe you and replace the scream stopper, I am charged with teaching you how to make the decisions of when and how to bathe, what and how to dress, and when to open and close your mouth to defend your beliefs. If I've learned anything from the mothers before me, it's that regardless of biology, and who is termed as giving birth to a child, a Mom is so much more. I hope in your eyes, I'm worthy of that name now and throughout our life together.
I love you my future president!
Mom
As you will know by the time you (hopefully) read these letters, you were my first (and if the Lord doesn't give me anymore, my only) child. I knew naught of what it would mean to be called, 'Mom.' I mean, I knew the basics: change you when there's an abhorrent odor reaking from your body and/or diaper, give you a pacifier (or passey, or Nuk, or BaBa, or plug, or whatever the darn think is called) when your screams fill the air, bathe you when I can no longer tell the color of your skin, and hold you when you need to be comforted. But all that aside, that's not the true definition of 'Mom.' Anyone can do those things--even your uncle that is deathly afraid he will break you if he looks in your direction. No, so far what I have learned about being a 'Mom' is this: it is a lifelong role that I will always question and has nothing to do with the fact you sprouted out of my body. I will be one of the primary peeps to shape your life, so I have to live a life that's worthy of shaping you. Not only do I get to be the lucky one to comfort you, I have to recognize when you need to be comforted and when to allow you the freedom to declare your independence and soar to your own heights. Not only do I get to change you and bathe you and replace the scream stopper, I am charged with teaching you how to make the decisions of when and how to bathe, what and how to dress, and when to open and close your mouth to defend your beliefs. If I've learned anything from the mothers before me, it's that regardless of biology, and who is termed as giving birth to a child, a Mom is so much more. I hope in your eyes, I'm worthy of that name now and throughout our life together.
I love you my future president!
Mom
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Letter 2
Dear Miss Peapod,
You are already quite the little lady. Rather than belch and pass gas like your father (and the doctors and other family members and neighbors and practically every other living thing) wants you to do, you scream at the thought of having to participate in such a "male" favorite hobby. Due to your sensitive tummy (sorry baby, but you inherited that from me), you MUST pause during feeding to rid yourself of the gas bubble that needs to erupt from your belly. The screech that follows after you realize you no longer have a nipple in your mouth is agonizing to my ears at best. And nothing is worse to me than having you sound asleep only to have you violently awakened by the gas exploding from the other end. Ladies do these things as quietly as possible and not in public--I know your sobs are only due to the embarrassment you must feel at doing these things in front of all to see. I empower you to enjoy your release and know that it's for the good of your body (at least that's what I tell myself when I refrain from giving you back the bottle until you belch as your father models for you).
I love you sweet gassy girl,
Mommy
You are already quite the little lady. Rather than belch and pass gas like your father (and the doctors and other family members and neighbors and practically every other living thing) wants you to do, you scream at the thought of having to participate in such a "male" favorite hobby. Due to your sensitive tummy (sorry baby, but you inherited that from me), you MUST pause during feeding to rid yourself of the gas bubble that needs to erupt from your belly. The screech that follows after you realize you no longer have a nipple in your mouth is agonizing to my ears at best. And nothing is worse to me than having you sound asleep only to have you violently awakened by the gas exploding from the other end. Ladies do these things as quietly as possible and not in public--I know your sobs are only due to the embarrassment you must feel at doing these things in front of all to see. I empower you to enjoy your release and know that it's for the good of your body (at least that's what I tell myself when I refrain from giving you back the bottle until you belch as your father models for you).
I love you sweet gassy girl,
Mommy
Monday, March 21, 2011
Letter 1
Dear Peapod,
This blog I dedicate to you. You are beginning to recognize me and know me as your mommy, your person, which also must mean you are beginning to recognize that I'm not always around. Although I secretly wish for you to miss me while you're on your daily journeys with Ms. Powell, I want you to always know I am thinking of you.
I'm thinking of you now--the way you looked when I took your picture this morning with both hands holding your bottle for the first time. You grow too fast my sweet girl--this Wednesday serves as the reminder that 15 weeks ago I experienced the most painful and most rewarding moment of my life all at once. My bumblebee came bumbling out of me, and in that instance, that last moment you were physically connected to me, I knew a wholeness I hadn't thought could exist. When you were cut from me, I knew that although we were now two beings, we would never be separated. You needed me then, and now, you are showing me all the ways you are becoming your own independent self, holding your bottle. I just pray that you continue to need me, the same way I will always need you.
I love you my sweet peapod.
This blog I dedicate to you. You are beginning to recognize me and know me as your mommy, your person, which also must mean you are beginning to recognize that I'm not always around. Although I secretly wish for you to miss me while you're on your daily journeys with Ms. Powell, I want you to always know I am thinking of you.
I'm thinking of you now--the way you looked when I took your picture this morning with both hands holding your bottle for the first time. You grow too fast my sweet girl--this Wednesday serves as the reminder that 15 weeks ago I experienced the most painful and most rewarding moment of my life all at once. My bumblebee came bumbling out of me, and in that instance, that last moment you were physically connected to me, I knew a wholeness I hadn't thought could exist. When you were cut from me, I knew that although we were now two beings, we would never be separated. You needed me then, and now, you are showing me all the ways you are becoming your own independent self, holding your bottle. I just pray that you continue to need me, the same way I will always need you.
I love you my sweet peapod.
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