Dear Julia,

Two years ago at exactly this time, I was so tired. And I had no way of knowing that I was just an hour away from finally seeing your beautiful face, hearing your sweet voice. I knew nothing except that I didn’t feel up to the task at hand: to keep pushing my exhausted and numb and hurting (yes, numb and hurting can happen at the same time) body until you broke free of it.

Two years later, I still don’t feel up to the task at hand, which is in some ways the same now as it was then: to guide, protect, and release you as you grow. Your needs and your worthiness loom before me, enticing and intimidating me with the knowledge that I can’t be a perfect mother to you but I have to try. Parenthood is full of guilt, deserved and undeserved. But even in that guilt is a gift: it wouldn’t exist if not for the mysterious, wildly irrational passion parents feel for their children.

That passion for you has changed my life, and I hope it continues to change me in good ways. Because I realize that you will learn nothing more or less from your father and me than who we are—there is no pretending, no hiding our weaknesses. We can’t teach you according to what we wish we were…no, you’ll learn from what we actually are, so we’d better be something we want you to emulate.

Your existence is an immense and wholly undeserved gift in my life every day, from the sweet memories I have of your life with us so far to the joy I have in simply being with you each day to the hope I have for your future. If the stresses and strains of the life of a grownup have broken my heart in some ways, it’s fair to say that living with you mends it, a little bit at a time.

In a half-hour, I’ll pick you up from daycare (I’m hoping to be there by 5:06, the time you were born). As I usually do, I’ll probably think at some point during the car trip about how excited I am to finally see you. When I walk through the red door, my eyes will search for your blonde hair, your sparkling blue eyes, your grin as you see me there waiting for you. You’ll start running around and probably refuse to put your coat on, and once we finally get it on you and say bye-bye to your friends, you might or might not actually get into your car seat. Once I finally get you buckled in, I’ll plop my exhausted pregnant body in the front seat, try to catch my breath, and start talking to you about your day (if you’re not crying about something). The rest of the evening will probably be a mixture of the sweetest satisfaction and the most maddening frustration as you live your regular two-year-old life: gingerly testing out your new singing skills with random selections from your favorite Elmo’s Potty Time DVD, refusing to eat your supper even though I know for a fact that you like everything I put on your plate, surprising me by using a word I didn’t know you knew, asking to “sit down potty” as a ruse to get your diaper and pants off just so you can run around that way.

No, life with a two-year-old, even a good one like you, isn’t always easy. In fact, it’s often trying. But it’s exciting, because I love seeing you become your own person…I love watching you change and grow…I love the way I feel when I look at you…I love *you*.