I want to tell you so many things you don’t know.  But it wouldn’t matter any more than telling a sheet of copper that eventually it would become a vessel.  The copper must go through the cutting and pounding and heat before it becomes what it was meant to be.

And so shall you. 

I know you’re uncertain about so many things, and feeling you’ve been flung into a parallel universe where you recognize no one or anything.  That’s ok.  You’ll make it through.  Even in the whirlwind of hospital stays and sicknesses and surgeries, you’ll still be sniffing her head, gnawing on her roly-poly thighs, buying frilly girly outfits in addition to the occasional baseball onesie, and snuggling her so tightly you feel you’re trying to absorb her.

Enjoy it.

Even at the hospital.

Enjoy HER. 

You’ll meet doctors and nurses and teachers and aides and parents and people at gas stations who will make you cry tears of joy because of their unusual kindnesses.

You’ll also meet jerks. 

But fortunately, the number of those who speak and act kindly will outnumber those who don’t.  So please….try not to carry too long hateful words or deeds.  They occupy too much space in your mind, and you for sure don’t want them growing the root of bitterness in your heart.

Your baby girl needs a peaceful you.

She needs a joy-filled Mom, who will eventually be called “Omma”.

Don’t fret over typical milestones.  Your baby girl will set her own time schedule.  Some things she’ll do on her time, some things she’ll simply not do. 

Trust me.  There will come a day where you won’t care about what she’s not able to do, and fully and completely rejoice in the things she can do.

And you’ll make a fool of yourself in parking lots.

“My 7 year old just signed “more, please”!  She put 2 signed words together!  She did it!  She did it!”

The lady returning her cart will smile, you’ll get in your car and cry.

Happy happy happy. 

You’ll pray like mad that God will heal her.  Oh, young me, I get what you’re saying.  But “she” doesn’t need healing.  Yes, you’ll want her healthy.  But her make-up, the DNA that has created this magnificent being and the God Who designed her, fashioned her in a beautiful way.  “She” doesn’t need healing.  She is who she is.  Her abilities.  Her “dis”abilities.  Her different abilities. 

One day you’ll realize—when someone comments that you’d probably give your left arm to make her “normal”–that no, you wouldn’t change a thing about her.  She’s perfectly and wonderfully made, and you love her just the way she is.

And you’ll realize what a milestone that is for YOU.

And then you’ll cry.

Again.  

20 year old me, I just want to say that you’re going to be overwhelmed when you get your baby home.

Overwhelmed with love.

With compassion.

With empathy. 

Your vision will change.  You’ll see everything through a filter, a filter that was created the moment you birthed her.  You’ll consider where others may be, because you know where you are.  You’ll be drawn to other babies who have g-tubes or AFOs or oxygen tanks.  Your heart will be tugged as you see moms carrying their bundles of differently-created, tiny humans and immediately sense a familial connection. 

Your endurance will be tested and proven.  Your patience will be stretched and strengthened.  Your heart will grow softer and your skin will grow thicker.  You’ll see God move in ways that your limited, human mind could never have imagined. 

So this vessel into which you’re being shaped, be sure it’s continually filled with the oil of compassion and hope and joy and encouragement. There will be occasions where you’ll begin feeling depleted, but if you remain open, I promise, you will be refilled.  (2 Corinthians 1:4)

Put your nose on your baby’s head and inhale deeply.  Sniff that sweet, infant scent.  Etch the aroma of her “cake breath” into your memory.  Nibble her toes.  Rock her a little longer.  Kiss those fat cheeks. 

Twenty-three years will pass more quickly than you realize.