Sisters and Spaces
As the sun streaming in from high windows warms me, curled up in our Eva space, I look at all of the surrounding, shining places. We set up this nook, complete with fireplace, bookshelf, and some new furniture, to display Eva’s belongings and to give her the space she deserves in our home; though we wish mightily the space was a bedroom for her growing, toddler self. So many of her special mementos— books, bank, pictures, art, and more— are in the Eva space, and a variety of lovely gifts from her loving family and friends adorn the walls and shelves. The Eva space is a lovely spot to remember, rest and reflect.
The Eva space also serves some other practical purposes. Next to my new, colorful chair (that matches a littler chair, with pastel colors, patterns, butterfly and bird) I’ve placed a small end table on which the Medela pump waits. On the sideboard, next to a framed picture of Pat, Eva and me, will be a little pad and diapers, wipes, and other changing necessities. The pack ‘n play will be set up right next to the colorful area rug that defines the space.
After all, Eva is going to be a big sister in less than a month.
And I don’t know that I could feel more blessed, excited, anxious, and worried by this. I feel blessed; God has made another special baby girl to grow our family, and this is truly a miracle. I feel excited; I can’t wait to hear her, see her, hold her, sing to her, nurse her, love on her, and feel again the amazing warmth and weight of an incredible baby Ackerman in my arms. I can’t wait to see her daddy with her. I feel anxious; the past thirty-five weeks (and more) have seemed endless, and another month stretches so far. I feel worried; in our situation, a certain inevitable, indescribable fear looms.
Amidst this kaleidoscope of emotion and anticipation, I miss Eva. I love Eva. I love Eva’s sister. I dance the dance of a mom of two children to my own unique rhythm: learning to share my love and worrying that I won’t share “right.” In spite of worry and fear of the future and unknown, I look forward to welcoming Eva’s sister so much, and I know our lives will again change, as we fall deeply in love with our second daughter.
I envision what it will look like to show love simultaneously to both of my girls. I recently stumbled upon a Huff Post blog essay, “You’ll Always Be My First” by Amy Wruble. I don’t know who she is, but I enjoyed the sweet sentiments in her letter to her young daughter. In it, she writes:
Dear Daughter,
"You're my favorite person in the whole world" is not something you're going to hear me say anymore. Not only is it unfair to Daddy, but it really won't go over well with your baby sister, once she's born and learns to talk. For now, though, it's hard not to keep thinking it.
You, you, you. You're the one who burst my heart wide open. You taught me what wild, uncontrollable, unlimited, unconditional love feels like. You changed everything. You turned me into a mom.
And even though you will no longer be my only child, or even my only girl, you will always be my first.
…And she goes on from there. Of course, she goes on to say things that are a little less relatable to our situation, like, “You were my first… toddler and preschooler.” However, I can relate to many of her lines and the overall message. My love will multiply, not divide. As my love grows for Eva’s little sister, it will continue to grow, too, for Eva, my first daughter.
While I would never publicize my most personal messages to Eva, I have been reflecting on Ms. Wruble’s letter, and our own experience, imagining what a “Dear Daughter, your little sister is coming…” letter from me to Eva would look like. I picture it looking something like this:
Dear Daughter,
As we anxiously anticipate the arrival of your little sister, we thank God, and you, for sending her to our family. I believe you helped God choose her for us, and we are truly, eternally grateful. We are so excited to meet her.
We miss you. I miss you. I let my tears fall this morning, gazing at your pictures from the time you were born. I put my face as close to the images as possible- wanting to feel so much nearer to you. You, you, you. You are beautiful, Eva. I smiled as tears blurred the vision of your chubby wrists and beautiful hands cupping your face in one silly picture. I stared at the dark, soft head of hair that I ran my fingers along at the nape of your neck. I cried as I watched a video of sweet you— hiccupping with the cutest scrunched-up expressions and surprised, wide eyes as your daddy and I laughed and adoringly spoke to you.
You, you, you. You are the wonderful big sister to this wiggling, stretching, growing (thank you, God) little miracle, and this little miracle gives me hope. You will watch over her forever and always; we pray she stays and grows well with us. I can’t wait to see her get to know you and to forge a relationship with her big sister in the ways you’ve taught us: not by sight, but by faith and believing. What incredibly powerful lessons you continue to teach us.
When I hold your little sister, I will be holding you in my heart, too. I know you know this and so much more. When I sing, read, and pray for your sister, I sing, read, and pray for you, too. As I watch your little sister grow, I’ll be seeing you, too. Our whole family will embrace your little sister with so much love, gratitude, joy, and warmth, and we’ll be embracing you, too.
You. You have formed who we are as parents. Even though I worry now about everything that could possibly harm your sister, I also appreciate the time we are all given together immeasurably more because of you. We love powerfully: beyond the tangible. You have taught me true gratitude— for time and love and the warmth of this sun in this Eva space and, well, everything good. You are so many miracles. You are our first daughter, our teacher, our angel, our sweet memories, and our eternity.
You, you, you. You have changed everything. And I thank you. I love you. Forever and always, my baby you’ll be.
As the sun streaming in from high windows warms me, curled up in our Eva space, I look at all of the surrounding, shining places. We set up this nook, complete with fireplace, bookshelf, and some new furniture, to display Eva’s belongings and to give her the space she deserves in our home; though we wish mightily the space was a bedroom for her growing, toddler self. So many of her special mementos— books, bank, pictures, art, and more— are in the Eva space, and a variety of lovely gifts from her loving family and friends adorn the walls and shelves. The Eva space is a lovely spot to remember, rest and reflect.
The Eva space also serves some other practical purposes. Next to my new, colorful chair (that matches a littler chair, with pastel colors, patterns, butterfly and bird) I’ve placed a small end table on which the Medela pump waits. On the sideboard, next to a framed picture of Pat, Eva and me, will be a little pad and diapers, wipes, and other changing necessities. The pack ‘n play will be set up right next to the colorful area rug that defines the space.
After all, Eva is going to be a big sister in less than a month.
And I don’t know that I could feel more blessed, excited, anxious, and worried by this. I feel blessed; God has made another special baby girl to grow our family, and this is truly a miracle. I feel excited; I can’t wait to hear her, see her, hold her, sing to her, nurse her, love on her, and feel again the amazing warmth and weight of an incredible baby Ackerman in my arms. I can’t wait to see her daddy with her. I feel anxious; the past thirty-five weeks (and more) have seemed endless, and another month stretches so far. I feel worried; in our situation, a certain inevitable, indescribable fear looms.
Amidst this kaleidoscope of emotion and anticipation, I miss Eva. I love Eva. I love Eva’s sister. I dance the dance of a mom of two children to my own unique rhythm: learning to share my love and worrying that I won’t share “right.” In spite of worry and fear of the future and unknown, I look forward to welcoming Eva’s sister so much, and I know our lives will again change, as we fall deeply in love with our second daughter.
I envision what it will look like to show love simultaneously to both of my girls. I recently stumbled upon a Huff Post blog essay, “You’ll Always Be My First” by Amy Wruble. I don’t know who she is, but I enjoyed the sweet sentiments in her letter to her young daughter. In it, she writes:
Dear Daughter,
"You're my favorite person in the whole world" is not something you're going to hear me say anymore. Not only is it unfair to Daddy, but it really won't go over well with your baby sister, once she's born and learns to talk. For now, though, it's hard not to keep thinking it.
You, you, you. You're the one who burst my heart wide open. You taught me what wild, uncontrollable, unlimited, unconditional love feels like. You changed everything. You turned me into a mom.
And even though you will no longer be my only child, or even my only girl, you will always be my first.
…And she goes on from there. Of course, she goes on to say things that are a little less relatable to our situation, like, “You were my first… toddler and preschooler.” However, I can relate to many of her lines and the overall message. My love will multiply, not divide. As my love grows for Eva’s little sister, it will continue to grow, too, for Eva, my first daughter.
While I would never publicize my most personal messages to Eva, I have been reflecting on Ms. Wruble’s letter, and our own experience, imagining what a “Dear Daughter, your little sister is coming…” letter from me to Eva would look like. I picture it looking something like this:
Dear Daughter,
As we anxiously anticipate the arrival of your little sister, we thank God, and you, for sending her to our family. I believe you helped God choose her for us, and we are truly, eternally grateful. We are so excited to meet her.
We miss you. I miss you. I let my tears fall this morning, gazing at your pictures from the time you were born. I put my face as close to the images as possible- wanting to feel so much nearer to you. You, you, you. You are beautiful, Eva. I smiled as tears blurred the vision of your chubby wrists and beautiful hands cupping your face in one silly picture. I stared at the dark, soft head of hair that I ran my fingers along at the nape of your neck. I cried as I watched a video of sweet you— hiccupping with the cutest scrunched-up expressions and surprised, wide eyes as your daddy and I laughed and adoringly spoke to you.
You, you, you. You are the wonderful big sister to this wiggling, stretching, growing (thank you, God) little miracle, and this little miracle gives me hope. You will watch over her forever and always; we pray she stays and grows well with us. I can’t wait to see her get to know you and to forge a relationship with her big sister in the ways you’ve taught us: not by sight, but by faith and believing. What incredibly powerful lessons you continue to teach us.
When I hold your little sister, I will be holding you in my heart, too. I know you know this and so much more. When I sing, read, and pray for your sister, I sing, read, and pray for you, too. As I watch your little sister grow, I’ll be seeing you, too. Our whole family will embrace your little sister with so much love, gratitude, joy, and warmth, and we’ll be embracing you, too.
You. You have formed who we are as parents. Even though I worry now about everything that could possibly harm your sister, I also appreciate the time we are all given together immeasurably more because of you. We love powerfully: beyond the tangible. You have taught me true gratitude— for time and love and the warmth of this sun in this Eva space and, well, everything good. You are so many miracles. You are our first daughter, our teacher, our angel, our sweet memories, and our eternity.
You, you, you. You have changed everything. And I thank you. I love you. Forever and always, my baby you’ll be.