Updated: Dec. 15, 2023
Originally Published: Dec. 14, 2023
My dear child,
As I sit down to write this at the age of 29, I find myself grappling with the fact that I still have no idea how to change a diaper.
Let me be honest with you: the world we live in can be harsh. There are unexpected plane crashes, love sometimes falters, and I often consume far too many chemicals in my food. My neighbors argue loudly after a few drinks, friends battle serious illnesses, and I’ve seen kids as young as twelve dealing drugs at school. I’m sorry to say, but this world is not a nurturing place for a child.
On my kitchen table, there’s a lovely bouquet of flowers your potential father gifted me just three days ago, but they’re wilting because I neglected to change the water. My sink is cluttered, and the recycling bin reeks of sour milk and soda. This home is not the ideal environment for a little one to grow up in.
Yet, the thought of meeting you fills me with warmth. I can already envision the colors of your room and the middle name I’ve chosen for you. I know the font I’d use for your birth announcement, and I’m certain you would be surrounded by more love than you could ever imagine. But I can’t help but wonder if it’s wise for us to meet.
I fear my inability to change a diaper, the chaos of the world around us, and my tendency to forget simple tasks like watering flowers or getting enough rest. It terrifies me.
I see myself showering you with compliments daily, perhaps even 67 times in a row on one particularly good morning. You’d have the freedom to paint my nails any color you desired—chartreuse, lavender, or electric blue. I envision tap shoes on your feet before you can even walk, but I worry that you might end up like me.
That’s why I hesitate. I’ve created such a mess in my life, and I wouldn’t want you to be burdened by it. Little girls shouldn’t have to navigate their mothers’ chaos. I need to spend years decluttering and organizing my life before it’s suitable for you to step into.
You see, I was told I was too big to play a role in a beloved musical, which left me feeling inadequate. This led to unhealthy habits, including periods of extreme dieting. I don’t want you to experience those struggles. I would let you eat whatever you wanted because I would never want you to feel restricted or ashamed about food.
We could have ice cream for breakfast, but I’d be cautious not to let dessert become an obsession like it did for me. Instead, I’d focus on teaching you the joy of movement—walking, swimming, and playing. I would always ensure you had clothes that fit comfortably and never let fashion magazines infiltrate our home. I would strive to set a positive example, avoiding negative self-talk, but I worry that one slip could teach you the wrong lessons.
If I fail to navigate this journey successfully, how could you ever forgive me?
Imagine us shopping for mascara when you turn 40, teasing your father about his thinning hair, and redecorating your room in wild prints. But what if I’m such a terrible mother that you forget me entirely? What if mundane moments, like soggy cereal for breakfast, lead you to believe I didn’t care?
You might face heartbreak and disappointments, and I’d feel helpless. Your twenties could be filled with debt, dead-end jobs, and heartache. I might lose touch with you and fail to protect you.
I’ve learned that true happiness comes from within. No one else can make you feel complete unless you already possess that inner peace. If I can’t find joy within myself, how could I expect you to be the source of my happiness? That would be an unfair burden for you to carry.
Of course, I could bring you into this world and love you fiercely, but as you grow and eventually leave, I might revert to my pre-motherhood self, struggling to find joy without you. I’d want to offer you advice, but you might resent me for it.
Ultimately, I can’t bring you into a world where I still haven’t figured out the basics of life, like watering flowers or managing my cravings. I know your potential father encourages making decisions based on love rather than fear, but it’s challenging. I’m writing this because I love you dearly, and I fear the pain and heartbreak you might experience.
Yet, when I look in the mirror, I see a reflection that could easily be yours. I want you to experience love and joy from family and friends, and I hope they would tell you how amazing you are.
Your potential father is right; there are countless reasons to hesitate, but love is the most compelling reason to consider bringing you into this world.
So, my dear, this isn’t a definitive yes—just a maybe. I have some soul-searching to do, some cleaning, and some flower water to change. Until I’m ready to make a decision, I ask for your understanding.
I love you more than you can imagine, and I dream of your laughter and tiny feet. But I must protect you from the messiness of the world until I can find clarity.
Your room would be painted in soft turquoise and deep plum, and your middle name would honor my grandmother, Janet.
With all my love,
Mom (maybe)
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Summary
This heartfelt letter from a potential mother reflects on the complexities of bringing a child into a chaotic world. The author grapples with her fears and insecurities, contemplating whether she can provide a nurturing environment. Despite the struggles, she expresses deep love and hopes for her future daughter while acknowledging the need for personal growth before meeting her.