A Letter to My Daughter

Warning: If you read this blog for the fits and giggles and pics of silly children, and you really don't want any serious garbledegook from me, you should probably skip this one and come back next week. But it occurred to me the other day that while usually this blog is about the joyful, difficult, and ofttimes ridiculous experience that is raising my children, it can also be about what motherhood is to me. And I can't shake the feeling that I need to use it as such occasionally, specifically this time. So here goes.

A few nights ago, I couldn't sleep. This isn't a new thing—I've had sleeping issues my whole life. But whenever this happens, I become obnoxiously pensive. And this night was no different. But unlike most nights, when the sickness in my mind makes me think of my inadequacies and imperfections, this time I thought about a comment Mike made the other day: I sacrificed a lot of things to become a stay-at-home mother. Why? What did I give up? What about my life is so much better? What would I tell my children about this decision?

I decided to write a letter to Katie. And while I have a whole journal that I write in for her regularly, this letter is different. This is about my story, not hers. But it's about something she needs to understand.


My Beautiful Katie,

When I was growing up, I had big plans. Like most chronic bookworms, I wanted to be an editor. But unlike all those other kids, I still wanted to be an editor even after I found out that I wouldn't just be reading fun books all day long. When I started taking classes for my editing minor, I fell in love with the English language. I began to love my editing classes even more than my lit classes for my English major. I loved marking up manuscripts, picking apart each sentence until it had just the right zing; I loved matching up serifs and non-serifs to create the perfect page design; I even loved measuring out the perfect margins on each side of a page depending on the content of the book. I know, it sounds nerdy. But it was my dream.

Then, on January 14, 2011, everything changed. I had just begun my very last semester at BYU; I only had one class. Your father and I were both unsure of where we were going or how our future would look. But that morning, after weeks and months and years of praying, hoping, and preparing, a nurse laid a little creature on my chest, swollen, pink, fuzzy, and smelling so new it overwhelmed me. It was you. Even now, I can perfectly remember it. You were so perfect, with wide open eyes taking everything in, even when you were only a few minutes old. I was completely blown away by how beautiful you were—soft, fuzzy skin, sweet little button nose, soft blonde wispy hair on top of your head. I pressed you to my chest, warm and completely mine, like you hadn't even realized you weren't still a part of my body. I pressed my nose against your shoulder, smelling your skin that was still so perfect, pure, untouched by anything bad the world would eventually start to throw at you. You were everything to me.

My mother used to say to me when I was a kid that I would never understand how much she loved me until I had children. When I met your father and we fell deeply, eternally in love, I thought I was starting to understand. When I was pregnant with you, feeling you start to wiggle and move, I thought I was getting closer. But that cold winter morning, looking into your face, I realized that there was nothing in the world I could love more than you—that you were the reason I existed. The reason I had been born, the whole reason I had lived thus far, was to bring you into the world.

That said, I don't think I ever consciously made the decision to stay home with my children instead of pursuing a career. I only knew that if I tried to hand you over and let someone else raise you while I went off to work to chase the praise of the world, it would break my heart. I couldn't miss one minute.

I'm not saying that it's bad if other moms choose to work. Some need to financially, some need to to keep their sanity. It's their decision. But thanks to so many blessings and the help from others for which I have never felt worthy, I have been able to stay home with you, and now with your brothers. I'm also not saying it isn't hard. Mercy, it's hard. The cooking, diaper-changing, clothes-washing, tooth-brushing, bum-wiping, bed-making, hurt-kissing, tucking-in. The discipline, for you and for me. There have been days when I've felt like my life here was so futile, I've questioned my ability to keep going.

But just when I think it's getting too hard, you'll climb up onto my lap and snuggle like a cat, just wanting to be close to me. Or Joshy will sing my name with his little toothy grin. Or Peter will hug me around the neck, squishing his little cheek onto mine. All the times that we play together, singing primary songs and wrestling in a pile on the floor, I get a charge to my batteries. As much as I get tired, frustrated, cranky, it is all worth it for the times that you run to me and hug my legs. It's worth it to hear all three of your little voices say, "Mama!" after I've been to the store by myself. It's worth it every night when I tuck you all in, to know that none of you will go to sleep without my singing to you and kissing your foreheads. It's all worth it.

Katie, you can be anything you want to be. I'm not one of those moms who disdains princess culture and all that, but not because I don't want you to be strong. It's because I'm not worried about your being strong. Sure, there are days when you prance around the house in your princess tutu or ballerina tights. But most days, you want to be a doctor like Daddy, a soccer player, a builder, a hair-stylist, a pirate, even a duck. You have fire in your spirit, that will not be quenched, and which can be used for so much good in the world. I know that no matter what you choose to do, you will make a difference. The world will not be the same, because you are here.

But no matter what else you choose to do with your life (and it could be anything), I hope you choose to be a mother. I hope that wherever you are, whatever you are doing, when you find your true love and get married in the temple, you will choose to have a family. I hope you choose to feel the joy, love, power that comes with bringing a child into the world. Do you want to know why? Because the love I feel as a mother is the closest thing in the world to understanding how our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love us. All the sacrifices I make, all the hard work I have to fight through, is because I love you. I love you deeply, fiercely, unconditionally. The only thing I truly want from this life is for you to be able to feel this same love and joy. And I know that that is exactly what Heavenly Father wants for us as well.

I love you, sweetheart. You are a choice daughter of Heavenly Father with infinite potential. I hope I tell you enough for you to know that. I hope that as you grow, you will see life as an occasion and rise to it. You are a princess.

Love, Mommy