A letter to our daughter

As one life chapter draws to a close and another awaits literally at any moment now as we anxiously anticipate the arrival of our first daughter, I’ve gotten to thinking…

A LOT.

Thinking about how life is about to dramatically change, if baby girl’s carseat is installed correctly, if Lincoln will like her, if my water will break in the middle of Central Market, and all of those nutty end-of-pregnancy worries that keep a mama-in-waiting up googling at night. However, as it relates to my blog, I’ve been thinking about expanding Gouramanda to encompass more of what occupies my own heart space, and that’s family.

While recipe and food posts will remain the primary focus of what you will find here, I wanted a place to be able to write about motherhood, parenting and family life as well. And honestly, discussing infant essentials or my birth story on a post about pancakes or pasta just. don’t. seem. right, ya feel?

So, without further ado, my first “family” post is one that includes a letter I wrote on my Instagram recently, a letter to our unborn daughter. This letter is one of a series of letters I wrote to her throughout the course of my pregnancy. We were taking a class for “expecting parents/parents of newborns” at church to begin to spiritually prepare our hearts for this new little bundle and letter writing was a recommended exercise. I fell in love with the way it connected us, with the idea that she will look back on my writing years from now and remember my love for her, even before I even knew her…

Baby girl,

You are simply God’s miracle.

From the moment we learned you were with us that sunny March day in California, when the world still felt so dark after losing your grandfather, you were a ray of sunshine parting the clouds, a blossoming miracle.
Amid the relentless nausea, exhaustion and depression of the first trimester, when my worried students wondered where their “fun Mrs. Munden” had gone, when my days revolved around two simple desires, making it home to take a nap and eat all the grilled cheeses, there was you, a miracle.

The day your dad and I walked, ok skipped, into that dark ultrasound room, hands interlocked, giddy with anticipation, to learn that indeed, “it’s a girl,” you were a miracle.

As I carried you through the wildflower-blanketed mountains of Colorado, through the bustling streets of New York, the quirky towns of Montreal and Quebec, traveling with me there was always you, a miracle.

As you’ve grown stronger and more vigorous inside of me, evidenced by the first indistinguishable little flutters to what are now powerful jabs and kicks, your limbs stretching across the expanse of my belly, stretching my body, heart and soul into the mother you are about to make me, a miracle.
And now, little one, as much as I desire for you to stay right where you are, to protect you from what can sometimes feel like a very broken world, to shield you from harm, I know we can’t keep you to ourselves much longer, for you are not ours but God’s to use in whichever exciting way He chooses. We can’t wait to meet you, for the world to meet you, little miracle.

Love,

Mama

 

 

[Photos by the amazing Lindsay Mac]