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A letter to my children:
Maybe when you get a little older, you’ll start noticing my imperfections.
Maybe you’ll wonder why I get so impatient with you sometimes.
Why sometimes I’m too tired to make a fancy meal or read one more book.
Maybe you’ll start to see where I fall short as a mother, as a wife, as a sister, friend, a would-be follower of Christ.
But maybe you’ll also see me trying.
Trying to show you my love for each of you, individually—a love that is so expansive that it overwhelms me sometimes. And gives me anxiety. Fear that something should ever happen to you.
Maybe you’ll see me trying to feed you wholesome foods and saying no to the sucker because you already had an ice cream cone that day. Maybe you’ll thank me for it someday?
Maybe you’ll look back and realize that all those chores and all that homework I made you do was to help you learn to work and to progress.
Maybe, when you have a child of your own, you’ll realize how tired I was waking up with you night after night, tending to your needs day after day.
Maybe you’ll feel that overwhelming love for your own child and cry as you realize that’s how I love you, too. How I’ll always love you.
Maybe then, you’ll forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made and continue to make as your mother.
