Lorelei's Letter - Letter Eight

by Michelle Schultz 3 months ago in children

Turning Three

Lorelei's Letter - Letter Eight

Lorelei's Letters is a series of posts addressed for my daughter, but that have general statements that I believe everyone should hear from someone, at some point in their lives. Basically, they are letters from mother to daughter, trying to explain this crazy world, and give some advice. A lot of them are on dark topics that I hope my daughter will get through with no scars. I hope you enjoy, or at least take something from the letters. Know that no matter who you are, where you are, or what you've done, you are loved. - A mother

My baby girl,

It was three years ago that I was walking about three miles a day, playing Pokemon Go and trying to get you to come out. You've always been stubborn though. Even before you were born. You were late. I had to be induced because you did not want to leave. My stubborn little girl, I had everything ready for you. I had your crib set up, which I did myself because I was determined to do it all alone. I think having you inside me double my stubbornness. But you did not want to come out. I did almost everything that the websites recommended to try to get a baby to come out. Nothing worked. You were not budging.

I got to the hospital about midnight—that's when I scheduled to be induced. Your Aunt Katy called me on my way to the hospital and asked me if you were here yet. I can't help but laugh. You've always been loved, but she loves you probably as much as I do before you were even here. She still spoils you. You were our bright spot in one of the worst years of our lives. But I laughed. She knew I wasn't being induced till midnight, and that even after I was induced, it didn't mean you were coming out that second. Yet she was still calling, asking if you were here, asking when she could come meet our girl. I know that no matter what happens to me—as long as she's around, you will never feel unloved or unwanted. Thank goodness for Aunt Katy, and her impatience of you not being in the world sooner.

Which, of course, you didn't. Thirteen hours later my legs were near my head and I think I was breaking your grandpa's hand trying to push. I have to say though—birthing drugs are magical. My doctor told me to push when I felt a contraction coming on. We sat there for about twenty minutes before he brought the screen around, pointed to it, and said: "when this purple line moves, I need you to push." I was scared out of my mind, hungry, and tired as all hell. I also had the "EVERYTHING IS AWESOME!" song from the Lego Movie stuck in my head. Once I actually started pushing, though... the pain hit. Hard. Like a truck. Side note: nurses will take ice chips away from you if you start throwing them.

So there I was pushing and screaming and wishing for all hell that I could just close my legs and let you live in there until I died... And then I heard you cry and everything else in the room just seemed to disappear. My stubborn little girl. The one that had caused me so much pain and had fucked up my body beyond repair—you had my hair. It was the first thing I noticed. More tears spilled. I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't been crying, but the tears that came out then were the happiest tears I've ever cried.

Not much has changed since then. You're still stubborn as ever and causing me to cry on an almost daily basis. Usually from trying not to scream at you and keep my cool. But you've come so far since that moment, baby girl. I can't believe that was three years ago. I can't believe how big you are and how advanced you are in vocabulary and knowing how to trick people—like when you poke your head out of your room after bedtime and ask me for one more hug or kiss, because you know I won't say no to that. Who could, really?

You love to dance. I signed you up for dance classes and thought how weird it was that my daughter wants to dance. I love dancing—in my room when no one's home and I can dance however I want. I never thought I would be buying little leotards and ballet slippers. I really never thought I would be excited about it. I'm so happy. I cannot wait to see where these lessons take you or if you stick with it for a long time. I'm so proud of you. I think your Aunt Grace and Aunt Claudia might be more excited than both of us—they are the ones who can actually teach you to dance. I can teach you the cha-cha- slide. But I'm so happy you have them both. I pray that these classes take you a lifetime to complete and you find love in them and joy in them and a lifelong hobby—or career, but I don't want to get carried away.

I'm so proud of you, my little girl. I didn't think I could ever be more proud than the day you were born but here we are, three years later and I'm proud of you for dancing along with YouTube videos I find. I'm proud of how much you've learned and grown. But stop doing that. You're not allowed to get any bigger—just kidding. No matter how big you get, you will forever be my baby girl. I would like to say I couldn't be any more proud of you than I already am, but I know you'll prove me wrong. I can't imagine how much I'm going to spend on tissues because of all the proud tears I'm going to cry.

You are so ambitious. You're like you're Aunt Jessi in that aspect. You find what you want and you don't let anyone tell you that you can't have it. Granted—this isn't always my favorite of your traits, but I love that you have it. I know I'll be eternally grateful for it one day. However, on nights that you don't want to go to bed and you don't let me tell you that you have to go to bed, it's really not my favorite. I know that is going to help you so much in life and for that, I thank God every night.

I don't know how I got so lucky. You are the most amazing little girl. You shock me and teach me things on a daily basis. You astound me with how fast you're learning. I don't know what I did to deserve you, baby girl, but know that I thank my lucky stars every single damn day that you're here. You are so beautiful and intelligent and crazy and sweet. I try not to take any of our days together for granted because I know, no matter how much you cry, I'm going to miss these days soon. These precious days are few. I hope the first three years of your life have been fun and adventurous enough for you—I tried really hard to make sure they were spectacular. I'm going to try to make the next three years even more spectacular. I will never stop trying for you. You weren't just my light in a hard year—you are my light in every day. Happy birthday, Lorelei.

I love you to the moon and back,

~Mommy

children
Michelle Schultz
Michelle Schultz
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Michelle Schultz

I'm mostly an editorial writer. I love to share my opinions and experiences. I don't hold back and I swear so if you take offense easily, my articles probably aren't for you. I'm a single mom just trying to stay sane. 

@loreleismom

See all posts by Michelle Schultz