For moms wrestling with the transition to additional children.

To my eldest child,

I had not a clue how intoxicating being a mother—being your mother—would be.

God chose you to make me a mama, and I have been changed for the better ever since.

You have impacted me tremendously over the past couple years, and I quickly took to the ebb and flow of our daily moments together.

My love for you is fierce. Most parents’ love is. It’s a love I’m thankful to have known as a child; a love I’m thankful to share with you; a love that teaches me much about Christ’s affection toward me.

But there’s more than love here.

I enjoy you—I enjoy being with you so much in the uneventful day-to-day.

I love our seemingly mundane moments: park and pool visits, snacks in your backyard fort, naps together, new books and new foods, milestones, tents under the dining room table, Popsicles after our nap, corny jokes, baking together, sidewalk chalk, bubbles, and trains.

You and me.

You’re my sidekick.

I cherished, arguably hoarded, our one-on-one time.

I wanted all of it, and I was blessed with most of it.

Before you turned two, I was pregnant with another little blessing.

You would be a big brother.

Your dad, you, and I were ecstatic.

Our days continued to unfold with sweet moments as you would hug my neck and perch atop my growing belly, asking me all the questions about the little blessing inside.

Yet I couldn’t help but feel intense emotion as I grieved a part of me that would never be again—mom to just you.

I was certain God called me to be a mom to more than one baby.

But would you understand?

Would you get everything you need?

Would I still be your favorite?

Would I get to snuggle you to sleep?

Would we still get our time?

Despite the overwhelmingly sweet anticipation of our second bundle, poignant notes played inside my head as I wrestled with my diminishing one-on-one time with you.

I was your best friend.

Even unpacking these emotions as I pen this letter puts tears on my cheeks.

I love you so much, little one.

But here I am, months down the road, writing this with a soft smile and large bags under my eyes.

Your sweet baby brother is nestled asleep on my chest as you nap in the next room.

Just yesterday, I snuggled you while we napped together—like old times.

It was only last week that you and I ate lunch in your fort while your baby brother slept.

While I cherish my one-on-one moments with you as much as ever, my perspective has changed.

You see, in your precious brother’s short amount of time on this earth, I’ve already learned your need for a brother will outlast your need for me.

By the grace of God, you and your brother will outlive me.

And you will depend on and love one another far longer than you both do me.

With my calling to mother more than one baby came a calling to foster a unique bond between you and your brother.

I won’t pretend the transition from you and me to you, me, and baby brother isn’t stretching—

I can still hear your little voice pleading with me as I nursed your infant brother: “Play with me, mama. Play with me.”

Tears.

But those tears were quickly supplanted by your brother’s giggles as he watched your very special dinosaur impression.

He adores you.

And you, him. So much so that you can’t stand the thought of him crying in his crib and often wake him from his nap if you think he might possibly be fussing.

I suspect it won’t be long before I look out the window to see you boys playing together in your fort.

This is how it’s supposed to be, and I find great joy in God’s beautiful design.

I was your first friend.

But your brother will be your forever friend.

*To both of my boys with more love than mere words can express.