This letter was originally posted six months ago on the MOPS International blog (MOPS.org/mom). Baby Giulianna has her second birthday tomorrow. It turns out she’s not a baby anymore. All of the sudden she’s a walking, talking, foot stomping, independent girl. And she is still a surprise to me. That she is here. And the best reminder that God’s plans are better than mine.
An Open Letter to My Surprise Baby:
It was a surprise. One of the biggest of my life. Those two little lines on the pregnancy test. They popped up so fast. I wasn’t ready for them. Even though I’d made a special trip that afternoon to Walgreen’s, I didn’t really think it was a possibility. But there it was. A baby was coming. You were coming.
I was done. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Caring for your Daddy and your sisters was all I could manage. At least that’s what I thought. I have no more room. Those were the words that kept coming to mind. No more room for what another person in this family requires. More work. More time. More attention.
I knew this day would come. This day when I couldn’t imagine life without you. I knew it in my head those first few weeks. I just couldn’t feel it. So I trusted and believed this day would come.
Really it’s been here for a while. This loving you like crazy. Though I eased into it with my feet in both worlds for a while, the worlds of disbelief and enchantment. But there’s no question now. I’m fully in. I had a scare a few days ago that I would lose you in some way. You bonked your head, your eyes rolled back, your face purple. And then in my arms your shoulders slumped and your body went limp. For three seconds time stopped. Until you opened your eyes, looked around and screamed.
I knew this day would come when my heart would break at the thought of any part of you gone. I just couldn’t see it at first. I didn’t know you. You weren’t a surprise to God. But you were a surprise to me.
Now there’s no question there’s a spot for you. In the car your car seat sits strapped waiting for your diaper buns to be plopped in. At the dinner table your highchair is rolled up to the edge so you can sit like your big girl sisters with Mommy and Daddy. Every family portrait your big sisters draw has four girls. There is no question which one is you. You are the tiniest. On those nights you are tucked in early, we all sense you are missing from our dinner conversation.
Because there was always room for you.
At the table. In our family. In our hearts. More room than I could ever have imagined. You weren’t a surprise to God. But you were a surprise to me. The best of my life.
