Dear Sweetheart,
Here I am at 27, and it’s safe to say I still haven’t mastered the art of diaper-changing. So, I’m writing to you from this chaotic little corner of the world, where planes sometimes drop from the sky, love isn’t always triumphant, and my breakfast might just be a plate full of pesticides. My neighbors tend to get rowdy after a few drinks, and I’m surrounded by friends battling cancer, while twelve-year-olds are allegedly peddling pot in school. It’s a wild ride out there, and honestly, it makes me question whether this chaotic world is fit for a child.
Just the other day, I glanced at the lovely flowers on my kitchen table—gifts from your potential father. Sadly, they’re wilting because I forgot to change the water. My sink is a mess, and the recycling bin? Let’s just say it smells like a blend of sour milk and stale soda. Clearly, my home is not the ideal environment for a little one.
But oh, how wonderful it would be to finally meet you! I can picture the colors of your room and have already decided on your middle name. I know how I’d design your birth announcement and how many hearts would adore you. But deep down, I wonder if we should really meet, my dear.
I worry because I can’t change a diaper, and the world feels so unpredictable. What if I forget to change the water in the vase again? What if I can’t manage to juggle all the responsibilities of soccer practice and bedtime stories? The thought terrifies me.
Yet, I can picture myself showering you with compliments every day—perhaps even 67 in a row on one particularly bright morning. I can see us having fun with manicures, letting you choose the wildest colors like chartreuse or electric blue. I’d probably put you in tap shoes before you could walk, but then I’d worry you might end up just like me.
That’s the crux of it, darling. My life is a mess, and I wouldn’t want you to crawl through it. Little girls should not have to navigate their mommies’ chaos. I have years of sorting, cleaning, and scrubbing to do before I can welcome you into my world.
I remember being told I was too plump to play Kathy in “Singin’ in the Rain,” a movie I envision us watching together countless times. It broke my heart, and that’s when I started not eating. I’d go without until I gorged on sweets when my parents weren’t around, consuming everything from Oreos to marshmallow fluff. Now, I’d be terrified to introduce you to those habits.
I promise you, my love, if you ever come into this world, you could eat whatever you want. I’d never want you to experience the struggles I did. You’d have the freedom to explore food without restrictions—except maybe for McDonald’s and non-organic lettuce.
I wouldn’t want to overdo dessert either, despite the amazing chocolate cake recipe from your great-grandmother that I’d love to share on your birthdays. I want to teach you about joy—walking, playing, swimming, and shooting hoops. I’d always buy clothes that fit you right and keep fashion magazines out of the house. I’d strive to be a role model, never putting myself down in front of you so you wouldn’t think that’s how women should act.
Yet, I fear I might slip up. I worry I’d fail you, and the thought of that weighs heavily on me. What if I’m so bad at being your mother that you forget me? Or worse, what if you grow up feeling unloved and hating your reflection because I couldn’t reach you in time?
This is why I hesitate to meet you, my dear. The world is filled with pitfalls—drugs in school, untrustworthy teachers, and heartbreaks waiting to happen. I don’t want to subject you to that. Your twenties could be riddled with student loans, dead-end jobs, and disappointing relationships. I’d want to help you, but what if I can’t? What if I fail to protect you, and that’s my responsibility?
Through my 27 years, I’ve learned that true happiness must come from within. You can’t rely on others for your joy. You must find that peace and love within yourself first. I know I can’t depend on you to fix my brokenness. That’s too much to ask of you, my tiny one.
Of course, I could bring you into this world and shower you with love, but what happens when you leave home? Would I revert to my old self, unable to manage my life without you? I wouldn’t want to burden you with my struggles while you’re trying to raise your own little one.
But I can’t help but imagine the joy you’d bring me. I’d want to brag about my fancy manicures and share my love for tap dancing. I’d want to see you thrive and change the world if you desired.
Yet, I still haven’t figured out how to change the water for the flowers or stop myself from devouring chocolate chips. Your potential father reminds me to make decisions based on love, not fear. I’m trying, really I am. I write to you because my heart is full of love, but I’m scared of the pain you might face.
So, here we are, darling. I’m not saying yes; I’m saying maybe. I need to tidy up my life and find clarity before I can welcome you. Until then, I hope you can forgive me for the uncertainty that lies ahead.
I love you so much already, and I can’t shake the thought of your laugh lighting up my world even though I worry about the chaos of it all. I’m confused, and I’m terrified of all the challenges we might face together, but I promise to love you fiercely.
Your room colors would be a lovely turquoise and rich plum, and your middle name would be Janet, after my grandmother.
With all my heart,
Mom (maybe)
Summary
In a heartfelt letter, a mother reflects on her fears and uncertainties about bringing a daughter into a chaotic world. She expresses her love and hopes for the future while grappling with her own insecurities. The letter captures the essence of motherhood, highlighting the balance between love and fear, and the desire to create a nurturing environment for a child.