as the fireflies guide us home.

Your dad and I stood in front of you for a long time today trying to get you to smile for this picture.

You make us babble like giddy fools. When you smile at me, I melt. When you wrap your lips around vowel sounds trying to sound like me, I think you must be the smartest little baby girl in the world. You already have the first little white tooth peeking through, and the fuzz on your head is getting longer and longer. I've been "brushing your hair" since your second day home, but now...now you have hair to brush!

You've been cheerful and making us laugh today. You've been smiling a lot, and talking with us. We went to church in the city and when we got home, I sat you up in the pink chair with some blankets. Sitting tall like a big girl. Maybe I'm projecting, but you seemed proud.

That was this afternoon, but this morning, we woke up sleepy and frustrated. You were crying, we were up all night, there was not enough hot water in our small apartment for both your dad and I to take a shower, and nothing seemed to be where it was supposed to be.

It made me think about the day you were born. I had been pregnant for a long time, a lonnng time. Okay, so no longer than most women, but if you ask any mom who has been carrying around all the extra's that pregnancy brings for nine months (we'll talk about these when your older), it feels like an eternity at the end. Your Nana, Grandmama, and Grandaddy had all flown to California just to meet you. Everyone was so excited. It was a big day. A life changing day.

Once we were at the hospital, they gave me a gown and they gave your dad these blue hospital scrubs to wear. Everyone wanted to take pictures and talk a lot. Even your Uncle Gian came by for a minute and brought flowers and a balloon for you. It was like a party.

And all I wanted to do, was cry. I was tired. I was so tired that when the nurse told me I had to walk to the surgical room and then after you were born I would go to another room and then another room I felt like I couldn't do it. It sounds silly. I know that. I knew that then. But I was so overwhelmed and had been expecting and emotional for so long, that when it was finally time to meet you, I felt like I couldn't make the last few steps. All of the weight and work I had been holding onto to get me there to that day, caught up with me and my body felt like it was too heavy to move.

I felt like I was going to be a bad mother, because I didn't want my picture taken. And because when the nurse told me I would get to hold you, I thought I would be too exhausted.

But then.

But then, your dad and I were in the next room, waiting for you, he was stroking my hair, and holding my hand, and there was this buzzing in the air. I could feel the room getting smaller and smaller until it was just you, and I, and him.

And then we heard you cry. (and cry, and cry...)
And he laughed.

And the whole room (our world) exploded out into a large and new life. Full of color, and light, and energy. There was no thing, no wall, no circumstance, no tired mom body, that could contain the bigness you brought with you.

Sometimes, it will seem like that. It will feel like you have carried the weight well. That through all of the heavy and hard times, you carried on like a champion, like a warrior. And then, at the end, it will be the small things that wear you out. The last few steps, and just a few more minutes will seem too long.

Even the people who are there, cheering you on, will make you tired.

But you are always strong enough.

You are always brave enough.

You are always enough.

And eventually, you'll finish that thing. And you will be on the other side of it, filled with joy at the gift it brought you. Swelling with pride at even the smallest accomplishments that follow as a result.

You will probably also live in an apartment that doesn't have enough hot water one day. One day, your daughter will be crying like a banshee, and your husband will stomp around the house while you feel unjustifiably sorry for yourself about how little sleep you got.

Just remember. These things are not true. You are just stuck under the shadow that accumulates because of all the unimportant life stuff that gathers itself up like clouds.

When that happens, get out of the house. It's too small. The sun will give some light and make the shadows scatter. If that isn't enough. Take a drive, the road will remind you of all the roads you haven't been on, and the cities you haven't lived in yet. Listen to music.

But be careful, some music will bring you down. Always own your music. Make sure it belongs to you, and not to your past or your doubts about who you are (you will have those sometimes. and that's okay.)

Do not be afraid of new places or people, they bring new perspective.

When you do leave the house, take a drive, listen to music, and meet new people in new places; do not smoke cigarettes. Do not drink too much wine or give too much of yourself away to things that cannot love you back home. You will learn what those look like. When you feel tired, they will glow warm like a place to rest, or they will spark exciting like a place to bring you life again. But they can fool you, trap you, and take years away from your life.

I will help you. I will help you know where true comfort and new life can be found. I'll start while you are young, while you still want to hear what I have to say.

I will spend the rest of my life standing in front of (behind and beside) you trying to make you smile. I will probably try to take pictures long after it embarrasses you.

Because I am never too tired.
-I am your mom.

wake up, to the grace
in this life that you found.
stand up, to the little things
holding you down.

look around my love,
look below and above.

don't talk, let the fires burn
out on their own. just watch
as the fireflies guide us home.
my home, my love.
from below and above.

yes is a world.

The truth is that I wrote the first letter to you when I was young, and full of hope, and everything was big in the world. I was small.

Maybe eleven years old. Your Nana had given me a diary, it was dark green with a lock and key. It had "diary" written across it in cursive gold letters. It was the kind you will probably know nothing about. Made with cardboard and paper. The kind you lock up, because you don't want anyone to read it, comment on it, share it, or like it. I will give you one when you are eleven, and you will probably blog about it.

I didn't understand a lot about life then. I asked my friend Keri what she wrote about in her diary and she told me she wrote about boys, and that I should write about the boys I thought were cute.

But here is a terrible secret about your mom. I didn't like boys. At least, not until I was much older. I was what they call a late bloomer. Easily embarrassed any time the topic of boys came up. Only, not for the reason most girls my age were embarrassed, but because I thought there must be something wrong with me.Your friends will tell you that you should like boys. In fact, it will seem sometimes that everything in the universe is telling you that having a boyfriend makes you some sort of special. Even now, I have friends with little baby boys who talk about baby you being their baby girlfriend.

And that is okay. For some reason, grown-ups think it's cute when babies do grown-up things. (We are always trying to find ourselves in you. (you have your daddy's eyes, and you have legs like your mom...)) But this is what I will tell you. It is okay, also, if you do not like boys when you are eleven.(And I think I speak for your daddy, when I say it is okay if you do not like boys when you are thirty either). I will never ask you to grow up faster than you are ready to. The world is big, and there will be a lot of places to see, and things you will want to do. I promise to help grow a desire for those things in you as securely as the want to share them with someone special.

I didn't write about boys. I wrote about being outside, about the books I read, and about my teachers, and my family, and about your Uncle Jon, and about the girl friends I had and how they were changing around me. I wrote about what I thought my life would be like. And that included you.

One day, playing with my friend Brittany, out of things to do, I sheepishly suggested we play house. And she laughed. She laughed soundly and confidently. Like she knew exactly who she was, and who she was, was entirely too old to play with dolls. I laughed too, awkwardly and too loud, because I didn't know why who I was still wanted to play with dolls, and why it seemed to be the funniest thing in the world. We pretended to be high school kids instead. We had pretend cars, and pretend dates, and wore real pink lipstick. 

When I got home, I thought a lot about myself. And I thought a lot about you. I wrote you a letter. In my green diary, and I locked it up and hid the key because I didn't want anyone to see it. I told you about how much I was going to love you. I told you about the house we were going to live in, and what kind of toys I was going to buy for you. I told you about Brittany, and Keri. 

I know that maybe, I was writing to myself. That I was putting away childish things I wasn't really ready to abandon yet. I was giving them to you instead. 

The day I found out you were coming was a very important day for me. I felt so many things. You were a big surprise. A wonderful, and scary surprise. I felt a lot like I did the day I wrote your first letter. I was full of hope, and very confused.

See, when I decided I wasn't a child anymore, I filled my life with a new type of childishness. I was wasteful, and reckless. I did what I thought was fun. I loved many useless things, and swirled around creative energy into big sloppy messes. Although, I didn't see it that way then. 

Everything in this world, was about me. Sometimes, it was about your dad too, but mostly, it was about what I wanted, and how things made me feel. 

When I knew you were coming, I knew that had to change. I quit smoking cigarettes the day I found out about you. I used to smoke. Smoking is a liar. It is something that makes you feel alive and kills you inside. You need to know that. The worst things in life manipulate you. They pretend to be yours, and take control of you instead.

You coming gave me life in so many ways. 

When I found out about you, The world kept growing and shrinking in front of me. Like a pair of new lungs. It made me dizzy. It made my stomach hurt. It was like a roller coaster. It made want to throw my arms in the air and yell in excitement.

You were coming! You were mine!

I was yours. 

And with that comes great responsibility I take very seriously.
When your daddy and I were married, he vowed this to me;

"...you’ve made me consider predestination and have faith in fate and faithfulness

in all its earthy commitment .(I will never leave).

There’s no philosophy to you and me,

Because love needs no introduction;

No treatise to explain its existence,

only consistency; only yeses that mean yes after we’ve lived through no’s that only meant not yet.

If God lives outside of space and time, then it would seem we have always been each others,

Always been able to trust in the surety of providence because it could have been no other way,

Unless perhaps we chose it to be;

But we didn’t, we chose each other...

...I’ll give you children if you want them,

we will raise eternal persons made in the same Image we were made in;
 

Ill give them all that has been given to me,

not neglecting to pass on the Grace that helped me get to you."

These are the best words anyone on this earth has ever given me.
When I told your daddy about you. I wrote down part of our favorite poem. We love poetry. It said; 

 yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

And that is what you coming is. It is a yes, you are ours. It is a yes, we will always love you. It is a yes, we are on your side, and it is a yes, that the world is wide open and skilfully curled.

I give you these words. They are the first of many. This is not the first letter I've written you, but it is the first letter in many I will write in getting to know who you are. And in being known by you.

We chose to name you Autumn, because we love the fall. It smells like home, and it feels like hope. It is what life is, a beginning and ending and beginning again always.

We love you.
I love you.

-I am your mom.