My dear girl,
In a deep, deep part of my heart, a part I don’t talk about very much because it feels illogically and dreams of the utterly impossible, I want to be everything you’ll ever need. I want to be the one you run to, the one you create lasting memories with, the one you smile at, the one who shows you the wonders of this world and comforts you through each bump. I want all of these things for myself. I do not want to share.
These are the selfish wishes of a mother. We try to hide them, but they are there and they are real.
I spend a lot of time reminding myself to let go. Telling myself that so many others care about you so very much. So much that they can be things to you that I never can. The importance of that cannot be understated. And, yet, it is so difficult to comprehend and accept.
For the past two years, I’ve struggled. Each morning, I’ve left you. Partly wishing that you and Miss N would go off and do amazingly fun and exciting things, creating memories that will last you a lifetime and help you bond with an inspiring woman who is both a little bit like me and a lot completely different in all of the right ways. And partly wishing that you’ll just sit at home and create no moments that could ever compare to the ones we share.
Fortunately, for us both, the former has happened every time.
And while I selfishly want to take all of the credit for every bit of your bubbly personality, your growing independent streak, your increasing ability to stand up for yourself, and your ever important and strongly held passions… I can’t.
Because Miss N has played an incredible role in shaping your little self. She has recognized your budding passions and fed them with every book the public library holds. She has tuned into your particular ways of learning and interacting with the world and uncovered the stories and songs that were, no doubt, made just for you. She has nurtured you and protected you and watched you grow. And she has felt a pride and a love for you that, two years ago, I both hoped and feared would blossom.
And so, although it broke my heart to think that I could miss your first step, that your first words would fall on ears other than my own, that someone else would convince you to try new things and watch you spread your wings… today, I know, that we have been blessed.
Last week, you and Miss N went to an outdoor children’s concert. You loved these things last summer but, this year, your shy streak has taken over and you’ve refused to go even once. You’ve also refused to talk to almost anyone new, try anything different, or leave your comfort zone for more than a brief second.
But last week, you went. And, when the concert was over, Miss N sent me these words:
“She did SO well! Dancing and singing… And she even went and got her own stickers after. So proud of her!”
She glows with pride for you, my love. Just like I do. Just like your Daddy does. Just like your grandparents and aunts and uncles.
She has become so much more than your nanny in these past two years. She has become our friend. A part of our family.
Next week, your every day with Miss N will come to an end. You’ll go off to school and she’ll go off to, undoubtedly, creating a lasting bond with another lucky little girl.
But we’ll see her as often as we can and we’ll talk about her in the spaces in between. She will have an open invitation here. And we won’t forget how important she has been to us.
All my love,