Baby girl, 

When you grow and become a momma yourself, I want you to know that no one tells you it is THIS hard. (Well, they do . . . but the way they say it seems a tad bit overdramatic and you’ll walk away thinking, “Oh, please. Motherhood is God’s single greatest gift to us as women. Stop complaining.”)

But the truth is, it’s hard. Really hard. Just not the kind of hard you’d expect. 

More often than I’d like, I find myself on the hard days wishing for someday.

Someday when you’ll sleep through the night.
Someday when you can tell me you love me, too.
Someday when we’ll have tea parties and pick out your wedding dress.

But then, someday happens…

Last night, I grieved your growth and mourned my ignorance because you’ve now outgrown your desire to be swaddled. Had I known Saturday would be my last time to wrap you up like a little burrito baby, I would’ve slowed down. Taken my time. Tucked each corner in ever so carefully with a silent prayer of gratitude. But swaddles and someday always collide. Yesterday’s tomorrow undoubtedly morphs into tomorrow’s past.

That’s why I take so many pictures; it feels more permanent. Like tomorrow I’ll still have you this way, the way I had you today. But that little incessant voice in the back of my mind relentlessly reminds me that I have it all wrong. Tomorrow you’ll be a slightly different version of yourself. And, eventually, after weeks and months of trying to capture and keep you, I will have missed your whole infanthood, because in reality, no matter how fleeting it feels, today is all I truly have with you.

Because people aren’t things. You can’t keep them. And you never really know how much you love them until they start to slip away. 

Watching your children grow is like the tiny crack in the corner of your phone screen after you’ve dropped it. At first, it’s no big deal. You hardly notice. Yet over time, the brokenness spreads and despite your best efforts, nothing can stop it. Eventually, you give in, convinced you need a whole new phone. 

Except you can’t replace a shattered heart. You can only hope. 

In the moments life moves on before I even realize it, I cling to hope in the promise of Heaven; knowing that because Jesus died for you, Daddy, and me, I will never truly lose you. I will always be chosen to be YOUR mother—healthy, beautiful, perceptive YOU! 

Please, sweet girl, know that I want you to grow. I want you to learn and explore. I want you to live the life God has destined for you. But know, too, that I wanted to be a mother more than anything in this world, so each time you need me a little less is a bittersweet joy. 

Swaddles and someday will always collide—for me, for you, and for your own babies—but we must never forget it is simply the collision of God’s beautifully crafted design. 

All is as it should be, 

“They seldom reflect on the days of their life, because God keeps them occupied with gladness of heart.” -Ecclesiastes 5:20

Originally published on the author’s blog

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Alyssa Hall

Hey y'all, I'm Alyssa! Just a ranch wife and momma trying to slow life down and get her people to heaven, one love letter at a time. (And proof that a four-year-old city girl's dreams of marrying a cowboy can come true!) To read more, grab yourself a big ole glass of sweet tea and stop by for a visit at