Love letters

Every year, around Doodlebug's birthday, and last year, on Little Shmoo's first birthday, I write a mother-to-daughter love letter.

I write about what the year has brought to her. I write about the challenges, the triumphs, the gains and losses, the experience of motherhood for me and daughter-hood for them, at least as much as I can see. I write honestly and lovingly. I try to write the kinds of things I wish I could read, now, in a letter from my mother.

Someday my girls may be mothers. If that time comes, I want them to know the things that, by then, I will have forgotten: how to coax a child to try new things, how to push onesself through a day of physical parenting, how to approach moral lessons, how to be tender during a tantrum. I want them to feel some sense of company in the experience, to feel less alone in the emotions. They may call me, during a particularly difficult day, and ask me "Mom, how did you do this? I am exhausted. I am so frustrated. Really: how did you do this?" And when -- if -- that time comes, I want to have something to give my daughters that was written fresh from the experience.

In addition, it is true that someday, my daughters will become motherless. If I could draw my love for them -- render it in a painting or a sculpture -- it would be in large, sweeping, soft arms encircling them, arms sheathed in the softest draping fabric, cool and warm and thick and light and comforting and invigorating, arms that surround their whole life to keep them feeling my heart forever.

But I'm not an artist.

And I can't give them that physical sensation, not forever.

So instead, I hope my love letters will keep them feeling treasured. I intend to write one every year, at least until they have their own children, but perhaps longer. These little girls have my love always, and I never want them to have to work to remember it.

Doodlebug's birthday is at the end of this month. Time to get started.