A Letter I Can’t Send: To My Sweet Girl

We all have letters we’d like to send, but know that we can’t. A letter to someone we no longer have a relationship with, a letter to a family member or friend who has died, a letter to reclaim our power or our voice from an abuser.

Letters where actual contact is just not possible.

Do you have a letter you can’t send?

Why not send it to The Band?

I remember well the first time I ever saw you - it was in a dream. 

I was a newlywed then. And in the dream, I was sitting in our living room, early in the morning. I saw a little girl, about two-years old with long, dark hair come down the hall and go into the kitchen.  She was wearing yellow footie pajamas and carrying a teddy bear under her arm.

I took it as a good omen when I found out my husband told me he’d had a dream about a dark-haired little girl that same night.

Many painful years passed while I waited for that sweet little girl to come into my life. Dreams of becoming pregnant didn’t come true as I’d so wanted. 

Finally, eight years after that fateful dream, I had you. It was unconventional, sure - you were a foster baby with the potential to be adopted, but the state wanted to make sure we were a good fit for you. 

That was all a formality to me.  You were mine. You had ALWAYS been mine.

I bought you yellow footie pajamas and a teddy bear.

Less than a year later, the paperwork was final, and you were my little girl - forever.

My love for you was fierce and intense. I had endless patience with you; I’d do absolutely anything to make you happy.

I don’t feel that way anymore. That makes me so, so sad.

It all started when I got pregnant with your brother. FINALLY, I had a baby growing inside of me. FINALLY, I had what I’d wanted for so long - a child that shared my genetics. No visitations, no sharing parenting with another mother. Just mine.

I’d wanted this so long, but I didn’t expect it to affect me the way it did. 

I always thought I’d love being pregnant. With my big hips, I was built for it. I NEVER expected what a complete bitch the hormones would make me.

Sadly, YOU were the target of my unending wrath. 

I got pregnant around your sixth birthday, and like most six-year old girls, you never stopped making noise. Even now, there is almost always some sound coming from your mouth. Talking, singing, making little noises. It’s like you had to make noise in order to breathe, and since we have to breathe to live, you never seemed to stop.

I hated it. 

I also was very sensitive to touch. Your dad (new dad; old “dad” having walked away from you as he had from me) could touch me and it was soothing. Your touch was like sandpaper on my skin. 

I found it easiest to function when you weren’t around.

If you were home, I’d send you outside or to your room to play. Or I’d leave you in front of the television so that I could be alone.

I treated you like I hated you.

It broke my heart when I finally came out of that hormonal hell. Your dad told me how he’d come home from work and take you for drives so you’d have some love and attention. During these drives, you told him that you didn’t understand why I was being so mean to you. 

Your little brother is almost two now, and I still feel a rift between us. I’m your mother, and I’m supposed to love you unconditionally and always take care of you. 

I know I don’t do very well in that area.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely proud of you. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter. You’re bright and funny and sweet. You adore your little brother and are a huge help with him. You remind me of my beloved sister every day, and I can’t get over how happy that makes me.

But some days, I still feel like I may not love you anymore.

I’m always happy when the school bus comes in the morning and you’re leaving for school. When you come home, I pretend to listen to your stories about your day, but honestly, I just want you to finish talking and go in the other room. I pretend to be attentive out of a sense of duty.

I don’t want this for us.

My mother is my best friend. Granted, she and I weren’t best friends when I was eight, but I don’t think I’ve EVER doubted her love for me.

It kills me that you may.

So I’m trying. I’ve been trying for a while. I pray for the ability to show you love. I’m making myself go through the motions of what a loving mother does. I hope it helps you feel like I mean it, and I REALLY hope that eventually, I’ll feel like I mean it, too.

Maybe I really do mean it. Maybe it’s just the stressful things in our current life that get in the way. Maybe next year will be easier. You’ll quiet down a little or I’ll become more patient.

Either way, you’re a great kid and you deserve love. I’m the only mother you’ve got, and I intend to do my part.

Please, please, my sweet girl, be patient with me while I figure this all out.