You are eleven weeks old today, and right now, you are fighting a much-needed nap in your bouncy seat, a picture of sleepy innocence in your ruffled onesie. There is so much that I want to say to you, some of which you will need to be many years older to understand. I suppose I’m compelled to say it all today, because this is the first day of the last week of my maternity leave. We will have a lifetime of mornings and evenings together, but soon our days will change, and I’m more mindful than ever before how quickly time is passing before my eyes.

I want you to know how precious these days are. Your daddy and I understand that my pregnancy was a miracle in itself, and those moments of anticipating your arrival were full of blessing, emotion, fear, and holy wonder. When we saw your heartbeat on the ultrasound for the first time, when I woke up in the middle of the night to feel the tiny pop of your first kick, when my heart sank to my toes the day that I thought I was losing you, when I bought tiny dresses, and decorated your nursery, and when we prayed together every day for your safety and your well-being, we still couldn’t know what we were really getting into.

When I was growing up my own mother, your GiGi, told me that there were things I would never understand until I was a mother myself. I think every mother has told her own daughter that at some point, and now I’m telling it to you. But even if you don’t understand it now, I’m going to go ahead and try and put those things into words. I love you more than you could possibly ever imagine, with a fierce protective instinct that takes my breath away. I love your cuteness, and your tinyness, and your sweet sleepy coos. But it’s far more than that. I love all the potential of who you may be one day. I love the history of the generations I can see in your face. I love the stamp of our Creator in your perfect tiny hands and your sweet little toes. I am endlessly amazed that the great love your daddy and I have for each other could produce something as amazing as you.

When we are in the car, I look in my rearview mirror and I see your face framed in your car seat. I will never get over the wonder of seeing my own eyes and my own nose and my own mouth reflected back at me, and yet you are something completely unique. And what I truly believe you will not understand until you are a mother yourself is the awesome weight of responsibility on our shoulders to guide you into finding out who you really are. I can’t explain to you the thousand ways every day I question what I’m doing and how I hope to goodness that God will cover for my imperfections. I can’t convey what it feels like to be filled with both overwhelming joy and sheer terror at the same time. I can do everything in my power to protect you from accident or injury, from illness or fear, from danger or from outside influences. But there is a tiny place at the bottom of my heart that knows it will never be enough. In this world I cannot possibly protect you from everything so it is my burden to both be aware of that and to try and prepare you for what you will have to handle on your own.

I pray we will have a lifetime of love and laughter together, but as all girls do, you will go through a time when you will have to learn to separate from me a little. And in those times, you won’t understand that there will never be a moment in my life that I don’t carry your first smile in my heart. That I will never forget what it feels like to have your tiny fingers wrapped around mine. That your first laugh was for me. That you have heard my heartbeat from the inside, and I have heard yours in my ears, somehow, my whole life. If there is ever a time as you grow up that you declare that I don’t listen to you, I will be remembering how many nights I have lain awake counting your every breath. As I teach you right from wrong, I will be more acutely aware of my own human failings than you could possibly imagine.

My darling, I pray over your every moment today and every day to come. I pray that you will love the God that made you, and that I will get to spend as many days with you as I possibly can, and I pray that one day you will get to experience the miracle of motherhood yourself. And on that day I hope you somehow find your way back to these words, so you can know that the overwhelming feelings you’re experiencing are the same ones I felt for you, and my mother for me, and all of our grandmothers and great-grandmothers before us. When you are senseless from lack of sleep, and frustrated, and fear that you don’t know what you’re doing, I’ve been there too. When you feel your heart explode with joy, I’ve been there too. And when you drop to your knees and pray over the life of your precious baby, I’m right there too, because wherever you go, and whatever you do, you will carry with you the piece of my heart that broke away and wrapped around you the moment you sparked to life.