I started putting together your special box today. I know, I know: you're not here yet. Your still up in my thoughts and snuggled in my heart, but I thought maybe the waiting would be easier with real, tangible things to touch and cuddle until we get to cuddle you.
I went to the store and picked out yarn for your blanket. I stood in the aisle and looked at all the options, picking up each bundle and running my fingers through it. I wanted it to be the softest yarn, just for you. With neat little stitches and soothing colors. I know you'll be using it to keep you warm, so it felt like I needed to take extra time to consider how I was going to put it together.
Looking at it now, half finished on the desk next to me, I can't help but think how perfect it's going to be with you tucked inside it. Warm and cozy, snuggled in my arms or your dad's. I just know you're going to take our breath away. Every second you're with us will be a second that was worth the waiting and the asking.
I can't put down in words how much I wish you were here already. Growing in my tummy or already out and exploring the world. I think about what you'll do with your eyes and mouth and the way you'll learn to crawl. Or which way you'll like to sleep. Even who you'll like being held by.
And then sometimes I wonder whether or not you already exist―growing in someone else's belly or as part of someone else's family. I wonder if we'll ever know you as a baby, or whether we'll scoop you up for the first time after you've already been walking and talking and learning on your own for a few years.
I don't care either way. If God puts your beginning with us or with someone else, you'll be ours in the end. And we'll still snuggle you, and I'll still wrap you up in your special blanket (even if it's a little small) and everything you do will still stun and amaze us.
I'm not going to lie, baby: it's heart wrenching to wait for you. You're my favorite 'when' and my highest hope. When your daddy and I talk about the things we'll do together, it always makes me cry. And I'm just sad in that moment because I feel like I miss you, even though I've never met you. I see a space for you everywhere and I want so badly for it to be filled.
I can't wait until you're old enough for me to tell you about how God has loved your dad and me during the waiting. I'll tell you how the Father's love extends into the darkest spaces, reaching for us and holding us with a grip that can't be broken. I can tell you about all the incredible women He brought to me while I waited for you, and how some of them were waiting and asking Him for their own miracles.
I love you, sweet baby. I look at my hands and dream of the way they'll ruffle your hair and wipe away your tears and hold you close when you're sick. I love you with a love that cannot be forgotten or brushed away. Every moment I've cried in the bathroom and placed a trembling hand over an empty womb, I feel how deeply this love runs. And it amazes me that it's still only a fraction of the way our Father loves us all.
And that love keeps me hoping while I wait for you. It reminds me that your special box is not waste of time, or a vain attempt at stifling a sorrow. It's a step of faith. It's a way of getting ready for you in the wait. And a way of reminding me that I need the Father's help to prepare for you every step of the way.
Someday I'll give you this letter, and maybe you'll look at me with an eye roll and a sigh because I'm being "that mom", but it's ok. Because giving you this letter will help you see how incredibly loved and anticipated you were, even when you were just a whispered hope in this waiting mama's heart.
I love you a million times forever,