Aleeda and Britton.

Oh my girls. The girls who first introduced me to motherhood. You may have a year and a half between you, but you were both first babies in your own way. One brought me into the world of sick babies and precious moments. Aleeda, yours was the hand I held as I entered the unique world of hospital moms with trepidation and fear. Your little face was the one that pulled me out of bed every morning as I created a routine that had me at your bedside every day. I watched your little chest, split open with your tiny heart beating steady rhythms, rising and falling with each assisted breath. Everyday was a gift. Some days I was sure we were going to lose you, some days I cried out from my heart for you to heal, to let them stitch you closed again, to open your eyes. You taught me patience, you taught me joy, you taught me that love can grow against all odds and inclinations. I was there when you opened your eyes, you saw me first. You closed your tiny hand around my finger and my walls splintered with hairline fractures. I had walled up my heart against potential hurts in the face of your brokenness, and one little smile from you cracked open my defenses. I remember your drug hazed glances, the way you tried to fight the sedation, the muscle relaxant. They way you watched. They way you wanted to know who was there. You wanted to be touched, talked to, included. Even in your drugged up, morphine induced fog, you still made everyone love you. The nurses we met, the families who became our friends, they all fell under your spell. And when you got older, when you lived there for so long, you radiated joy. You pulled everyone into your world. You made everyone love you because you smiled through pain, laughed through illness, gave attention to everyone without reservation or discrimination. Everyone was your friend. You are still that way. You still welcome the world with arms spread wide. You live without abandon. You know what you want. My little Aleeda is growing and becoming a social butterfly. And you are bringing me with you, pulling me along. I am learning to manage the wake of smiles, the looks from other parents as they communicate their laughter at your all inclusiveness. Though the future with you still seems uncertain, though I am all to aware of the possibility of losing you, I know you have already made a difference. Especially with me. You made a difference in me.

And Britton came next. After being so used to a sick baby, I was scared to have a healthy one. I didn’t know what to do. It was like having a first baby all over again. We brought you to see Aleeda the day after you were born. You were so peaceful. I can remember thinking things were too good. You were too easy. I kept waiting for something bad to happen. And then I relaxed. You were the breath of fresh air, the light in the darkness. We would spend our days with Aleeda at the hospital and you were the therapy baby. So many people wanted to see you, to hold you, to soak in some of your peace and calm. You seemed to carry your own world with you, one that was purely sweet. At night, when it was just us, I would sit on the couch with you in my arms and just look at you. Your little face, you small sighs, your twitching sleepy smiles. I was amazed at how fast you grew, how much you ate, how strong you were. You had abs that made me jealous. Your core was so strong that sitting was a challenge. You sat too straight, too erect. You fell backwards. I cherish you because you gave me so much joy in a time when everything seemed dark. I couldn’t get enough of you. Even now I am amazed by you. You laugh with genuine happiness. You run and play and are so sturdy. Britton, you are my warrior. Not because you never get hurt, not because you never cry, but because you always pick yourself back up and keep going. You are so determined. Stubbornness runs deep in you, strong willed. As much as I try to parent that part of you, I want to refine it as well. It is a trait of yours that will serve you well if we can learn how to harness it. I am excited to watch you grow. You are a treasured gift, one that I am forever grateful for. You reminded me to live, not just survive. I am grateful for my moments with you. The way you love my lap, my hugs. Even more,  I love the way you throw me off with ease as soon as your dad walks in the door. I love that you are a daddy’s girl. I love that you feel free to run to his arms. He needs that. You remind him that he is needed and loved and wanted. He is your protection. I hope you are always his girl. I hope you let his love teach you about the Father’s love.

My girls, you are precious. I ache with love for you. I hope you can see it as it spills out of me. I hope you remember my love for you above all else. Every day, as the sun sets, I want to wrap up the small, wonderful moments you give me and put them in a closet in my mind. As you grow older I want to go back and unwrap each of those moments like the treasured gifts they are. The way you smell in the morning, the way I bury my nose in your head as you sit in my lap, one of you sweet and fresh, the other spicy and warm. I want to look back and see the mornings you spent laughing and chasing each other, holding hands as you run circles around the house. I want to remember the chatter. The language of small words and silly phrases you share. You are best friends now. You love each other with a purity and simplicity. You are untainted in your joy, untouched by the sadness of what has been or what is to come. I want to remember that. Every day begins with you and every night ends with thoughts of you. Memories are transient and like vapour. They can easily disappear. I wish they were tangible things that I could pack away and collect. Things I could unpack later and give to you, share with you. I want to remember the best of this, the shiny bits of light that you have dropped along the path of my life. My girls, my girls, I love you.