Introducing “Dear Lady Jane” – letters to my daughter

You’re supposed to “write what you know” and I definitely know my 7-year-old daughter. Sometimes I treat her as I would an adult, though most of the time, I have to censor what I say.  There are times when I wish she were an older friend so I could share with her some of the things she says or does and we could both laugh or just generally get a kick out of her behavior.  Other times, I wish I could give her more explanation or stories for why something is the case. Someday, I hope, I will get to share some of my past experiences with her that may be of value to her.  In the meantime, I decided to start writing these thoughts down, recording aspects of her childhood and of myself that perhaps I will share with her when she is older.  Maybe it will even become a collection worth sharing with a larger audience.

So this is sort of a journal in the form of essays disguised as letters to my daughter.  The topics are so universal that I share them here in the hope that someone will identify with something I write and feel less alone.  We all know this parenthood thing can be challenging and even scary at times.  The power we hold in shaping an entire human being can be awesome and terror-inducing at the same time.  What if we don’t do it right???

And Lady Jane? Who else besides royalty gets every need met without lifting a finger? I started calling my daughter Lady Jane when she was born. It seemed like a way to pretend that this little person that I care for 24/7 was indeed like royalty and yet mock the whole idea at the same time. It just popped into my head and never left.   I would come into her room to lift her from her crib and cheerfully sing, “Good morning, Lady Jane!” while I raised the shades and started to change her diaper.  Finally, when she got to be about two years old, she woke to the fact that I was calling her something other than her actual name and she asked me to stop.  I honored her request but I still think of her sometimes as Lady Jane, and that makes me smile and gets me through some tough moments.

Future letter topics will include: Faith | Travel | Marriage | Dating | Education | Money | Friendship | Honesty | Compassion | Wonder | Family | Forgiveness.  Feel free to suggest others.

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Dear Lady Jane,

I can hear the tinkly chimes of my iphone alarm on my night stand as if coming from a faraway fog.   Just reaching to make the sound stop is hurting my head.  Tylenol.  I need Tylenol.  And Sudafed.

Looking over beside me, I notice that Daddy is not in the bed.  He must have slept on the living room couch out of fear of getting this head cold.  We can’t have that, can we? A very important week of meetings and travel lays ahead for him.  Sigh.  I try my best to stumble to the bathroom to get the medicine, then cocoon back into my warm sheets.

Perhaps I’m drifting off to sleep again when I hear a whimper next to me that quickly escalates into a whine, grating on my nerves like nothing else can.  “You’re losing my time! Get uuuup!” You consider of the time between 6:00 and 7:30 on a school day to be precious.  If you’re sleeping, that’s time lost.  “Get uuuuuuuppppppppp!”

I can barely make my voice work to beg you to please stop.  We decide to start over, something we sometimes do when all sense of reason has left your head and you are acting like a crazy person.  It’s sort of a way to erase what just happened and take it from the top. So I offer to come into your room like I usually do and pretend to wake you up.

I suppose it’s to be expected that this doesn’t really change your mood.  You mirror me in everything, so if I’m feeling moody and I can barely function, it really doesn’t bode well for your behavior.  Most mornings, we laugh and talk and enjoy being together, me having coffee and you slurping chocolate milk through a straw as we watch a kids tv show, but I just can’t today.

Ah, motherhood.  Seven years in, I am used to putting my own needs to the side in order to care for someone else.  That doesn’t make it any easier though, especially on mornings like this.

Before becoming your mom, I didn’t ever think about what kind of mother I would be.  Your Grammy was amazing with me and I assumed I would be equally stellar.  It was only after your first birthday that I started to understand that having a child isn’t really what makes someone a mother.  There’s you.  There’s me.  There’s us. And then there’s me in relation to you.  Me as mother.  Me as your mother.

It felt like you were born to trigger certain reactions from within me, giving me a chance to work through many important issues.  Ahem.  For example, I need some time to myself every day and you somehow ensured that I didn’t get that.  You’d cling fiercely to me all day, rarely letting me put you down.  You only napped for 30 minutes.  There must be an entire curriculum that you are here to help me learn.  Patience, humor, setting limits, gratitude.

It’s taken me far too long to realize that being your mother, not someone else’s mother, is exactly what I am meant to be.

I’m sorry to say that this has little to do with you.  In getting to know you, I was discovering myself.  Your intense separation anxiety reminded me that I was exactly the same as a child.  This gave me many opportunities to look back and try to understand and accept the little girl that I was.  All of our similarities – and there are many – highlight and mirror aspects within myself that I’d never before thought much about.  Our differences brought up all kinds of emotion within me as well.

The first 4 years of your life were definitely the hardest for me.  I suppose it took me that long to accept that I wasn’t going to get my old life back.  How slow am I??? I was struggling for sure.  There were times, I am hesitant to admit, when I just didn’t feel like being a parent anymore.  It’s such a gargantuan responsibility, caring for the physical, mental, and emotional needs of another person, one who is completely helpless at first.  I’d had to give up so much: a job that I enjoyed, time for myself and with friends, personal space. I’d had to learn new skills: protecting my own needs, breastfeeding while doing other tasks, making do with 5 hours of sleep.

I used to be so overwhelmed that if anyone shared news that they were expecting a baby, I would look at them in shock and ask, “Why would you DO that to yourself???”

Parenthood isn’t something you can undo, nor would I wish to.  I love you and I’m completely glad you’re here.  By now, I’ve found my stride, so to speak, and can handle most of what you toss my way and even find the humor in it.

What does become unglued is whatever identity you had pre-little person.  You had lots of friends, a great job, traveled when you could? Baby doesn’t care.  You say you can speak 7 languages? You once performed at Carnegie Hall? Won a Presidential Medal of Honor? Baby doesn’t care.  Baby doesn’t care.  Baby doesn’t care.  You needed me, exactly imperfect as I was (and still am).

All that energy I poured in hasn’t been lost.  It mutates somehow and returns as smiles and giggles, learning and singing, growing and dancing.

The past few years have been different in a good way.  I have learned to listen to you.  I see that you are developing independence and responsibility and learning about friendship. I’m learning to surrender control, actively listen, set firm limits, and let you figure out your natural talents and interests.  Situations and other people have a way of teaching you in ways my words never could.

I realize now how much my identity has shifted and grown.  My sense of purpose has expanded to encompass caring for you.  My marriage to Daddy has deepened from shared creation, responsibility, and wonder at all that you are.  Sharing myself with you has been a gift, one I unwrap several times a day, even on days like today when I don’t feel well and I wish there were someone here to take care of me.

I’m going back to bed.

xoxo, Mommy