Dear Child,

I’d like to think that I’ve said everything I am writing now out loud to you at some point during your brief and beautiful life thus far.

And maybe I have.

But what if I didn’t say it loud enough or often enough or in the manner in which you could hear it? What if I whispered it to you as you fell asleep or said it in a language your ears couldn’t understand or your heart wouldn’t hear?

And that’s why I am writing this down. Recording it. In another format. A different way. Because it’s all bits and pieces I want you to hear a thousand times in all the ways that count. A hundred verses of the same song sung in different languages, written in the sky, using bold new magic markers. Smoke signals and sign language and lyrics to your favorite song.

I want you to know this.

I know I am getting so much wrong and I know there are gaps and holes as gigantic as the Grand Canyon we gawked at last summer. It’s an imperfect world and I am an imperfect mother. I’ve been your teacher and your guide and your instructor and I’ve forced you to do math and read novels you didn’t choose and I’ve tried to teach you about history and our world – and about that – I’m sorry. My own knowledge has been limited, filtered, forgotten and, frankly, has shifted during the years that you have been educated by me. I want to say I’m doing my best – and some days I am. And some days I’m giving you my sub par, less than, not top notch.

That’s all true.

And this is true too.

I love you. I’m in your corner. I’m your biggest fan even when I’m telling you to put your shoes away (again) and clean up the dishes and no, you can’t watch that movie and why would you say that to your sister? I’m on your side and I am your cheerleader and you own all of my heart and I would pick you a thousand times over for everything and anything.

I see you. I hear you. I long to understand you. I want to rescue you and I have to let you find your own path and that hurts me in a way I didn’t know I could hurt.

And one day you’ll know what we all learn eventually.

When we know better, we do better.

And it’s not usually until you stack up enough years to surpass about double the years you have earned thus far that you begin to get a glimpse that grace is the best gift we’ve all got to offer. That forgiveness and empathy is what will actually carry us. That parents were never your enemy and that the weight of regret is the heaviest burden you’ll carry.

You can’t know all that now.

You’re forgiven even as you begin.

Love,

Mom

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