A Letter to Millie, on Her First Birthday

One year ago, I met you.

A tiny hand with long, slender fingers grasped at mine. I'm sure the doctor announced something as he held you up, but you and I had already locked eyes and began our own conversation.

It seems like yesterday, really. It was a couple weeks before Christmas. I sat in the skating rink while most of my family circled the ice. I looked out at Sky, then back down at my stomach, imagining what it would look like in the months ahead. I went through the entire baby name book, starting with girl names at the front and working my way through to the boy section. "Amelia," I said out loud, testing it on my mother. She smiled, said she liked it. I said it again, pondering.  My breath shimmered a little in the icy air. "I could call her Millie." I put a small heart next to the name to remember it was a favorite, and turned the page.

Even though the memories are long lost for you, I still keep them; the way your tiny heels felt as they danced in my belly. The nights I felt the mattress move from the hiccups of a baby I hadn't yet held. The month when the pregnancy journal stopped asking about morning sickness, and started asking how often I felt contractions. The time when I walked into the room that would be your nursery, and starred at the little swing that sat on the floor. I looked at it and cried, so worried that I wouldn't be good enough for someone so perfect as you. I knew, already, that you were.

At the hottest time of the year, the very peak of summertime, you entered this world. Except for the sunshine and the colorful hot air balloons flying past the windows of my hospital room, I wouldn't have known. I was so focused on the tiny, pink baby girl that the nurses would bring in on a little, rolling cart with a bassinet on top. "She's hungry," they'd say. "She needs her mama." And somehow, mama was me. I had given you a name, but you gave me a new one, and with it, a new heart.

I have taken more pictures of you than even I knew I would. There are quite literally thousands of photographs of your sweet face, your round cheeks, and your astounding blue eyes. I will not remember this particular day, or what we did together, or what face you made, but I will have a photo of it. Something that may seem inconsequential to anyone else is a bit of rich history between you and I. I don't dare forget it.

This is just the beginning. You'll grow up more quickly than even I can imagine, both breaking my heart and making me proud at the same time. Any time now, you'll say your first words, take your first steps, and leave most traces of infancy far behind as you run faster towards adulthood. Ah, but Millie, no matter what great things you accomplish, and no matter where your beautiful life takes you, I will always remember this beginning. I will always remember the befores.

You were like the destiny I never knew I was destined for, but recognized immediately as my own. And I promise to be with you every step of the way as you get closer to your own purpose in life. Maybe you'll be a mother like me. Maybe you'll have a world-changing career, or maybe your life will be a quiet spark on this big earth. Both are noble, and I know you are capable of everything good.

But one purpose, your first one, was to be my daughter. For that, I am so grateful.

Happy first birthday, Amelia. Mama loves you.