Dear Meadow

I never forgot it–the friends who visit to nestle Chanelle in the crook of their arms in the weeks after she was born. We talk and laugh and catch up on the years since we’d last been together. We marvel at the tiny newborn as we pass her around like a stuffing-filled bowl at Thanksgiving dinner. We delight in the little tow-head toddler that bounces around the room vying for attention that he now splits with his sister. After our visit, while cradling my newborn on one side of my body, I reach out to hug our friends as they prepare to walk out the door. With the door open and one foot nearly outside, our friend leaves us with one final statement: You have your boy and your girl. It’s perfect. You don’t want to mess with that.

I know our friend means nothing by her statement, but for some reason, it leaves me feeling a tinge of fear. Over the years as we contemplate the addition of another little one, doubt and uncertainty creep in as our friends words echo in my mind. What will happen if we add another child? What will messing with our ‘perfect’ mean? Are we risking hurting what we have? Especially after losing my Mom I questioned, would another child be the ‘other shoe’ that drops?

Still, somewhere deep down I think I always knew. I knew that there was more. I knew that our ‘perfect’ could be even better.

Seven years ago today, our family was enriched, enlivened, and electrified by a tiny, dark-haired baby girl who stole our hearts and knocked our boy-girl ratio off kilter. Today and everyday, I could not be happier that there is a Meadow.

Meadow, you are seven years old today. SEVEN! I can hardly believe it–seven years have passed since we caught our first glimpse of you. I could not have known then what I know now–our family needed you, exactly as you are.

Meadow, in the days after you were born, I spent hours sitting in a chair just staring at you in wonder. Overwhelmed with the love that sprouted in a single moment. I couldn’t believe I ever felt fear at the thought of you. In seven years, Meadow, you have filled our home with a life-filled energy that can only be described as “Meadow”.

As much as the books and the experts will say that we parents have so much to teach our kids, I’m certain that the opposite is true. You have taught me so much. Just yesterday, in fact, the following conversation happened. . .

You: Can I paint myself?
Me: (Looking at the pictures you just painted and assuming you would paint a self portrait). That’s fine.
I watch as you quickly point your paintbrush toward your nose, landing right on the tip making you look like Rudolph. I quickly understand you wanted to paint on you and responded, no, the paint needs to stay on the paper,
That’s when your eyes meet mine and our smiles mirror each other as I relent and you spend the next twenty minutes painting yourself red.

And Meadow? It was FUN.

And funny. And goodness we laughed.

The thing is, you’ve taught me that saying yes is worth it. It’s worth every bit of the mess and the hassle and the fuss because on the other side of “yes” is a whole lot of fun. On the other side of “yes” are a whole lot of memories that will last a lifetime.

You’re the reason we’ve bought stock in glue (Slime. All. of. the. time.) Why I do laundry on a daily basis. Why we shake our heads in wonder rather than shake our fingers in anger. Meadow, you’ve helped us all to see that diving in and getting dirty is always worth it.

To see all the crazy, adventure, rambunctious side of you, is to see only a partial view of who you are. There is so much more.

You are tender and kind and gentle. You love with a fierceness that can be felt by in the weight of your hands in mine and the grasp of your arms around my neck. Even now, seven years later, I often stand back and watch from afar and comment to Daddy, can you imagine our world without her?

I can’t Meadow. I can’t imagine our world without you.

Meadow, I know you won’t read these words on your seventh birthday. Maybe you will read them on your 17th or 27th. It doesn’t matter to me when you read them–I just want to know that they are here, if ever you need to be reminded.

Meadow you are loved more than you can understand right now. There has never been a time, nor will there ever be a time when you are not deeply loved. Today and always, Meadow, we celebrate you and support you. I hope you know that you are never alone. Sure, there will be times in your life when you feel alone. When you think you have to go at it alone. When you feel weary and sad. In those times, Meadow, I hope you remember that we are here for you. Your dad and I, whenever you need it, we will be a soft place to fall.

When you feel joy, so do we.
When you feel sadness, we do, too.

We are here to walk beside you whenever you need. And when there are times you need us to walk before you–we will be here. And Meadow? This one is important–when you need us to drop behind. . . we will be walking several paces behind you.

No matter where you are or where we are, Sweet Girl, we will always love you.

Meadow, one of the best parts of my day is climbing the stairs to wake you.When the clock turns to 7:15 I climb the stairs and open the door into your darkened room. The dogs are beside me as I lay in the bed beside you. In the darkness, I gently brush my hand across your forehead, willing you to wake up. You are slow to rouse and as I wait I whisper six little words. . .

I’m so glad you’re my kid.

Meadow, I’m so glad we messed with our “perfect”.

And I’m so glad you’re our kid.

Happy 7th Birthday, Baby Girl.

I love you.

Mom