My best friend is expecting her first baby. I’m pretty excited because the idea of mini versions of us running around together is pretty all-time.
Having your first baby is a big deal. And your bestie having her first baby is extra amazing because you get all the joy and cuddles of a delicious newborn bubble of squishiness to fall in love with, without the episiotomy. This pleases me.
On thinking about my BFF’s upcoming life-changing event, there’s so much I want to say to her. But sometimes when you want to say something so important, the words just don’t come.
So instead, I’m sharing with you (and her… SURPRISE!) an open letter with all the things I want to say but haven’t... yet.
So here it goes.
My beautiful friend,
You’ve got this.
I know you’re worried. I know you’re scared. All that lies before you right now is one big, amazing and terrifying mystery. You’re wondering what kind of mother you’re going to be and if you’re going to be a good one. What I know, I know for sure is that you’ve got this.
Why? Well, a number of reasons.
You’re going to be amazing.
I’ve seen you with my own children. Whereas you question yourself (like we all do), wondering whether you’ll be a good mother, I have no doubt about it. With my children, you are kind, patient, loving and fun. You’ll be all these things and so much more with your own. You have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. Your baby is the luckiest one.
Ask for my help. Seriously.
I want to tell you that when your baby arrives, you can ask for my help. I know you think that because I have three young children of my own, you can’t. But I’m telling you that you can. If I can help, I will. I want to. Because I’m invested.
I want to tell you that when your baby arrives, you can ask for my advice.
But you don’t have to take it.
I won’t begrudge you finding your own way, I’ll celebrate it. Because I’m invested.
I want to tell you to take every piece of advice that you are given, well-meaning or otherwise, with a grain of salt.
I am going to rock aunthood.
I want to tell you that I will love your baby. You know how you’ve loved mine? Each and every one of them? Even though we were both quite sure that neither of us even liked toddlers before I had them? Well, just like you’ve loved mine, I will love yours. Because I’m invested.
I want you to know that if I could be, I’d be walking the halls of the hospital while you’re in labor—pacing, worried, excited. Drinking disgusting coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Wanting to be the first person who you and your husband introduce your little human to when he or she is born.
I want to, but I draw the line at hospital coffee. A girl is allowed to have standards! (I’ll bring you the good stuff when I come by to visit, don’t worry.)
I’m so proud of you.
I want you to know that no matter how you do it, I’ll be proud of you. If you have an epidural. If you don’t. If your baby sleeps well. If the baby doesn’t. If you never complain about being exhausted. If you complain every single day. If you implement a routine or if you take each day as it comes and wing it.
I’ll be proud of you no matter how you do it—no matter how well you cope, no matter how many times you feel like you’re failing. Because you won’t fail. Not in any way. And I’ll be proud. Because I’m invested.
