Dearest Emma Leigh,

Your mom was around 15 months pregnant and was in labor roughly 100 hours when you came bursting into this crazy world. Ok, maybe my math is slightly off, but I know for certain that exactly one year ago today this world became a much brighter place.

I've known and loved your mom for nearly twenty years, but during this past year she has become a new woman; or better yet, the absolute best version of her I've ever known. You really do make her happy when skies are gray. You were this bright ray of sunshine that came in during some of the saddest days, and something that gave us all something to celebrate.

When I found out that I was going to have a girl, the first thought I had was that I know that she already has a friend, confidante and partner in crime in you, little sweetheart. Because if you are anything like your momma, and J is anything like me, you two will have one of the greatest loves of your lives in each other.

I've loved watching you grow, and I've loved watching you change your entire family for the best. 

You light up the world, Miss Emma Leigh-- and I love you so much it makes my heart ache in the best way possible. Happy first birthday sweet angel! I'll love you always!

Love, 

"Auntie"

Dear fifteen-year-old self,

Dear fifteen-year-old Jessica,

I’m sorry it took me so long to write to you, but I needed twice your lifetime to get this perspective.  I want you to hear me. Right now. Listen and believe what I tell you.

Your body is beautiful.  Right now, you have a bendy, healthy, chubby body. You have pink skin, twinkling eyes, and curly, albeit frizzy, hair.  You have curves and rolls and cellulite and stretch marks where your boobs grew super fast.  And I know that you look at yourself in the mirror and you think you aren’t good enough. You think that guys aren’t going to like you because you don’t wear single digit sizes.  And you hate that you can’t share clothes with your friends.  You are embarrassed to admit your actual bra size. You make silly faces in photos so that people won’t be able to see how you really look.  You begin the habit (one I am still breaking) of standing behind people in photos so that your body won’t show.  You are known as the funny girl, partly because you are quick witted and creative, but mostly so that people will like you despite how you think you look. 

 

I need you to know something, Jess—you are beautiful.  Really, truly beautiful. I look at pictures of you back then, and my heart aches for you.  I want you to see yourself the way I see you now, the way your mom sees you, and your dad, and your family, and probably some boys in your class—you are cute and pretty and happy and smart. Even with those weird blonde bang things! You are beautiful.

You will eventually gain weight, then lose it, then gain more, then lose more. You will struggle with your looks for years. You will date abusive sh!theads and boys with other girlfriends.  You will try every diet, see doctors and read books and cry and curse and take dangerous pills that make your heart skip beats trying to lose those curves.

And you will choose to date boys and men that are not worthy of you because they won’t embrace the real you. They will tell you they just want to be friends, or they don’t like you like that, or they have feelings for you but couldn’t date you in public because you are taller and thicker than they are.  You will meet these meek men, these wimps, these users and scoundrels and superficial assholes, and you will start to believe that these are your best options.  Losers who treat you like an afterthought. And you’ll put up with it because you don’t think you deserve better.

This will not only break your heart, but it will annihilate your self-confidence.

Why didn’t he want me? These questions echo in your head. Why didn’t he love me?

Listen to me, sweet girl, and I will tell you why.

Because. Just because.  Because they are selfish, or proud, or stupid, or weak. Because they are scared to take a chance, or they are hustlers.  Because they wouldn’t know a good thing if it slapped them across the smarmy face.  Because they are flawed humans who will eventually either become better humans or sh!ttier humans, but that’s not your problem, sweetheart.

It doesn’t matter why.  Those guys wanted you to change yourself, or hide yourself. And that never would have worked.

You can’t be happy being a shrinking violet, my dear.  It’s just not who you are.

Someday, sweet girl, I promise you that it will all make sense.  You’ll replace “I’m not good enough” in your head with “I’m pretty f-ing fantastic.”  And then, and only then, you’ll meet someone who LOVES you. All of you. You with stretch marks and You with unshaven legs and You with food poisoning. #diarrheaandvomitingfortwodaysstraight #heheldmyhairbackwhileIpukedandcried

And you know what? You will love him too! LOVE love. Not that “does he love me or hate me, Romeo and Juliet, I’m going to kill myself” bullsh!t love.  Your heart won’t hurt all the time—because love shouldn’t hurt!!! Damn it, Renee Zellweger and Julia Roberts and Pat Benatar and even Carrie Freaking Bradshaw, stop convincing girls that love has to be a tortured battlefield! It doesn’t. It can be easy, and peaceful, and good. Love can be light. And love can be deep. True love is like a tree that continues to root itself deeper and deeper over time while growing and spreading and blooming.

You will find this love, and you will be the healthiest you’ve ever been, mentally and physically.

Now, sweetheart, it’s not all going to be butterflies and rainbows shooting out of your eyes. Sh!t is going to get hard, but you’ll survive it, and you’ll come out the other side, walking hand-in-hand with your partner.  You’ll both giggle in bed when the dog toots.  And you’ll hold on to him like a life raft when you lose a friend.  He’ll support your crazy ideas and hobbies. He’ll ask you to marry him on a random Saturday at home in bed because he couldn’t wait another week until Valentine’s Day. He’ll tell you that you are beautiful while you are at your heaviest, and he’ll actually mean it. He’ll hold on to you during his toughest times, leaning on you, depending on your strength and dedication.  He’ll beam when he introduces you as his wife, and brag about you behind your back.  He’ll never ask you to hide who you are. Never. Not even once. Not even a little bit.

And, guess what? That weight thing won’t ever really go away. You will even gain twenty-five pounds in less than a year. But you know the difference? You’ll love every minute of it. Even when you only lose 5 pounds, 9 ounces, you couldn’t care less. Why not? Because you are a badass b!tch who just grew a freaking human being from the size of a poppy seed into the size of a watermelon. Except, instead of it being like a watermelon, it’s a FREAKING HUMAN. With teeth and eyes and fingernails and a brain and a heart and a soul.  From your body, that body you’ve cursed all your life, will come the greatest gift you could ever imagine.

And from then on, your stretch marks won’t be just hidden under your bra, but will travel up and down your sides and hips, like tiger stripes representing your fierceness and beauty.  And you will look in the mirror and see the pooch where your daughter twirled and stretched and grew for 37 weeks. And you’ll see the scar where she was pulled from heaven into this world.  You’ll know your “love handles” won’t ever slim down, and you are grateful because your daughter fits perfectly on the protrusions of your hips. You’ll see your vast bosom as the amazing parts of you that nourish your child and connect you to your ancestors.  Your body is beautiful, teenage Jessica. It is beautiful now, and it was beautiful then.  So stop worrying about how you look, and start doing some damn homework.  Seriously. I’m 31 and I still have to use my fingers to multiply by nines. Get on that, will you?

Love,

Future Jess

To all the moms who told me breastfeeding is wonderful and not so hard,

Why'd you lie?

I'm still nursing, and while it has become much easier, it was NOT EASY OR REWARDING AT FIRST.

My little one took two months to be able to successfully latch. I had terrible engorgement followed by mastitis and thrush and nipples that felt like they were being used as a pin cushion. Since she couldn't latch, I had to pump. I was told to pump both breasts every hour, all day and night, to keep my supply up.

A breast pump is similar to a medieval torture device, with the difference being it is electrically charged. It also makes noises that sounded to me an awful lot like someone chanting "you suck" over and over at 3 a.m.

I'd bring baby J to get weighed, and hold back tears as they would tell me she was too small.  I'd curse as I tried to get her to nurse, shoving my sore boob in her mouth as she screamed and cried too. I'd feel a dichotomy of relief and grief when she'd gratefully, voraciously take a bottle of my breastmilk from her daddy while I would excuse myself to get bullied by the pump again.

But because she wasn't nursing, my supply waned. Even my around the clock pumping, mothers milk tea, massage, showers and nipple ointment wouldn't help. She screamed out of hunger, and I was constantly terrified of running out of milk. I'd try to limit her intake to space it out, trying to give myself a chance to reload. I was only ever one bottle ahead of her, and when the growth spurts came, I couldn't keep up. She would drink every drop in the bottles and scream for more. I was failing. My husband and father begged me to give her formula, but I was scared that she'd have a bad reaction to it. She barely weighed five pounds... I was terrified she'd lose weight if she got sick.

I saw the lactation consultant many times, called and texted her with my concerns. She practically begged me not to give up, and I pretty much hated her for it.

Finally, one night at 2 a.m. I tearfully woke up my husband and asked him to come downstairs with me. I popped open a canister of formula and cried as I prepared two ounces for my screaming girl. I sniffed it- it smelled awful. I hesitated, feeling like a failure, worried she'd break out in a rash, or vomit. I made James give her the bottle as I watched, holding my breath.

She gratefully drank it down in a matter of minutes... And then it happened. She stopped crying. Sure, she pooped something fierce about ten minutes later, but then she slept. For four glorious hours, she slept-- the longest stretch she'd ever gone. The sleep magic didn't last just then, but she wasn't hungry.

Supplementing with formula wasn't my first choice, but it took so much pressure off of me. Even so, I was ready to quit breastfeeding so many times!  I was in this cycle of pumping and then not having enough milk to nurse, so giving a bottle, then pumping to relieve the new letdown. I was frustrated. I read portions of a book called "Making More Milk." It helped a bit but I kept waiting for this "joyful" part of breastfeeding I kept hearing about. There was no joy in Mudville this day.

  I then discovered I had something called Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex, which basically means that every time I'd have a "let-down" of my milk I'd also have a brief panic/anxiety attack. At first I didn't know it was at all related to breastfeeding, but I finally made the connection and through research and my lactation consultant I realized it was an involuntary reflex. I would suddenly feel dizzy and sick and anxious and guilty while breastfeeding or pumping. Although it didn't go away, at least knowing it was an involuntary physical reaction to the let-down reflex helped me get through those moments much easier than before.

Even despite all of the previous fun, I didn't give up. J started latching better, and I set aside a full week to work on feeding and naps. That week turned into two, and by three months in, I was nearly exclusively breastfeeding-- very rarely pumping and only about 6 oz. of formula a week.

Now, I've learned to let her nurse as often and as long as she likes. I don't let myself get tempted to give her a bottle to give my nips a break because it will cause my supply to suffer. I also have decided that I will nurse when I go out in public... Covered up usually, yes, but I won't apologize for it. And in my home? I have begun nursing uncovered in front of most guests. The baby nurses better this way, and I just ask people to avert their eyes if it makes them uncomfortable. Would you like eating dinner with a blanket over your face and head? Me neither.

So now breastfeeding is much easier! I have not had to give the baby any formula in months. She is growing fine and she doesn't cry from hunger anymore. She's seen me and her dad through three or four bad viruses and hasn't gotten sick. She's an awesome latcher and nurser now. I am glad I stuck with it. And those joyful moments that previously evaded me? Once in a while, while she is nursing, baby J will look up at me and flash me a big gummy smile. 

Believe it or not, it makes all of this worth it!

Now, ladies who told me that nursing was the best thing ever...

Did you forget about teething?!

Sincerely, 

The reluctant lactator 

My lap immediately following nursing, and twenty minutes before an important meeting... Twenty minutes away.

Dear Julianna Rose,

It has been just under four months, and I just couldn't love you more. I mean, I'm sure I will, because each day this feeling in my heart just stretches and grows into this gorgeous pain and tearful adoration that I feel every time I look at your smile.

And each day I can't believe I could love something so, so much. Just pure love, love without words. I've only known you for four months, and I'd eagerly lay down on train tracks for you, old black and white movie style.

It was a year ago Sunday that your life started, a moment of conception and magic and miracle. The most hopeful moment in my life. For this child I have prayed, and God answered my prayers. I love you little one, and I'll love you every day of your life.

Love,

Mommy