Letter to my children
I hope you remember all of the ways I cared for you since the second you were born. And since you probably won't, I hope that you remember bits and pieces of life beyond cooking and cleaning and routines. For it is beneath these details where I have truly labored. In the passing, fleeting, constant moments — piled millions of miles high — is where I have worked to raise you.
I hope you know that almost everything I did — the hard decisions and simple pleasures — were rooted in my love for you. I always intended for you to have certain experiences that would make you live stronger, even when those lessons were hard for you, even when those lessons were hard for me.
The list is infinite — please and thank yous, seeking spirituality, learning when to save and when to spend, making your bed every morning, blocking certain TV channels, restricting TV time, saying no to mobile phone, making you wait, crossing the street, eat sand, hang upside down on the monkey bars, devour an entire pack of gum, have a fit in public, leaving you unattended with paint , prepare a picnic lunch, ride a bike.
In each moment — the silly and the serious — we hold on and let go, and we grow.
I hope you understand that I left you with your cousins to have a date with your dad, so you could see that our love was a priority. And so someday, you would look for deep, mutual love too.
I have slowly learned that I don't have all the answers and most days it feels like I don't have any. My patience is fragile, my standards are intense, my expectations of life are immeasurable. But I hope someday, when you write your memoir or give my eulogy or reminisce with my grandchildren, that there's enough crazy things I did to balance the wholesome, enough challenge to showcase my wisdom, enough sweat and tears to show how honest I mothered you with every ounce of my strength.
I hope you know that the love of mother and child — the truest love of all — crept into every inch of my being, every day of my life. And I hope you bravely tell the stories of my greatest moments and my worst failures, and remember to dig even deeper. Because it is in the smallest cracks and crevices of our story, the lost and longing, the funny and forgotten, that I learned the most about myself.
Unique and universal, in the climb and the slide, are the places where I earned the years of my life. These are the places of honor, the places... I became a mother.