Woah, I wasn't ready for you.
January 19th, in the cold and dark hours of early morning, I gasped in shock over the faint pink lines marking the reality of your presence. I canceled plans with friends and instead planned how I would tell your daddy over Skype later that day. He'd just left for our first deployment, and you were by far the best surprise we'd ever had. (Still are.)
I'll never forget the hilarity of his slack-jaw expression.
Something about you made me guess you were a girl. I asked the ultrasound technician to tuck the gender-revealing ultrasound print-out in an envelope so I could open it during a video call with your daddy. One afternoon, I tucked my legs beneath me, sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, and pulled out our envelope. I remember surprising your daddy yet again, saying, "I was right. . . It's a girl!"
In the weeks before your birth, the days dragged endlessly together. My fear culminated into higher mountains than my nesting to-do-lists. I worried over how and when we would give birth. I cried about body changes and the hemangioma protruding from the bottom of my pink diamond-shaped birthmark. Your daddy pulled me back into his arms, endlessly alleviating my every concern.
And on the day when we were scheduled to be induced, you came all on your own.
From day one, you've been decisive and determined. It's something that exasperates and excites me as your momma.
Baby girl, I really wasn't ready for you.
I wasn't ready for how different and how similar it would feel the second time around. I wasn't ready for how much a part of me would want to stay in the mother & baby wing with just you- content to wait another day before introducing you to your brother.
I wasn't ready for how much sleep we would all lose, or how your gorgeous golden-red lashes would flutter contentedly as you drifted off. I wasn't ready for the way your cute little fists would ball at your sides, thumbs tucked between your index and middle fingers. I wasn't ready for your grumpy faces, and the way you would scream every time your big brother poked your belly button after I had transferred you to the bassinet. I wasn't ready for the way your old lady grunts would stay with you, growing hound-like as you crawled across the floor, or thrumming like a war chant as you ran laps around our couch.
I didn't understand that all your added sounds would make our family's symphony whole. I was ignorant of how much God would strengthen our arms to carry both you and your brother. In all the unknowns, I kept losing sight of the beautiful privilege of experiencing life with you two, side-by-side.
I was blind to the ways your squealing giggle would stitch sanity back into my heart.
I was blind to the wonder of threading my fingers through your red curls. I was blind to the joys of hearing your sleepy voice ask, "Brother?" every time you wake up. I was blind to the utter joy of watching you zip first and last in line to hug your daddy goodbye or goodnight. I was blind to the peace that would fill my heart every time you dip your forehead lower for one more kiss.
I was blind to all the gaps you would fill, but He wasn't.
He saw the night you would hold my hand and walk me 'round and 'round the living room for an hour, never tiring or letting go.
He saw the way your sweet lips would form the words, "Luh ooh, Daddeeeee."
He saw your love for animals and unicorns and Moana and coloring and swings and green beans and tacos and stir-fry. He probably laughs at the ways you defy expectations; loving meals and tolerating snacks, learning all the words but favoring "Buh-bye," enjoying snuggles but craving running down the side-walk all on your own, and always squishing your puppy's face in a hug yet growing distraught every time his tail "Push[es]" you.
He beheld your soul while forming you in my womb, and between your sassy and stubborn layers, he painted a sweetness of such profound strength.
My Liliana Hope, I wasn't ready for you, and I'm so glad I wasn't. I've struggled and made mistakes as your momma, but you've taught me that imperfect love isn't wasted. You've shown me how my lap is more than equipped to snuggle two. You've revealed a different level of exhaustion and weariness coupled with a deeper hope and broader purpose.
And, now, I'm not ready for you to turn two. You're already a toddler in so many ways, but a part of me feels the same way I did in that mother & baby wing. I don't want to leave this moment; this time. I don't want to walk through the doors. I don't feel ready to trust the car seat to keep you safe on our drive home.
So much has changed in the past two years, but this time I know that even though I'm not ready, my feisty blue-eyed girl will show me just how much I'm missing.
You'll open my eyes. You'll outgrow your highchair seat at the kitchen table. You'll outgrow your pink pull-ups with your favorite little horses on the rumps. You'll outgrow your love of stealing mommy's makeup and your brother's bouncy balls. You'll outgrow your spot on daddy's lap. . .
But even as all our knowns endlessly change, I have no doubt Jesus sees all the steps you have yet to take.
He doesn't hold my fear or your daddy's slack-jaw expression.
You were no surprise for your Heavenly Father. . .
He knew that these last two years with you would be some of the best of our lives, and He's already planned what's coming next. Our surprises aren't over.
Good things happen in the cold and dark. And your faint pink lines were worth every fear, every failure, and every faith-fueled prayer.
We love you.
Happy birthday, Liliana Hope!
