To My Daughter,
Tonight you rapidly developed a fever. Sadness creeps over me now as I hear your silent slumber be threatened with moans and whimpers. That’s how mommy and daddy can always tell you’re not feeling well. I’m sorry, baby. We’ll do nothing short than the very best for you. Caring for you is never a burden. Trusting God and His will for you comes with growing pains, but it’s the best pain to have and trusting him will never fail us.
Tonight I’ve had the honor of laying you on my chest and rocking you while you slept. You’re so much bigger than this time last year. So. Much. Bigger. Not quite sure what’s causing you discomfort, but I rejoice in the strength in your body and pray for the purpose of the fever in successfully battling a nasty bug. I thank God that you are wonderfully made.
I love you!
Here’s a poem I wrote you while we held each other.
When I Count My Blessings
If I kissed your fragrant hair at the top of your head once, then I kissed it a hundred times I suppose.
I would count each kiss a blessing.
When I held your small feet and wondered how many steps you had taken today, I’d guess five hundred.
I would count each step a blessing.
When your warm hands lay against my arm, I remembered watching you clap today. How many claps? Several dozen.
I would count each clap a blessing.
While I cradled your body and listened to your rhythmic breaths, I heard one after another after another.
I would count each breath a blessing.
I prayed for hours of deep and much needed rest for you. So far, there have been five.
I would count each hour a blessing.
Your blankets and sheets, socks and pajamas that keep you cozy and warm, how many? Ten of each at least.
I would count each one a blessing.
If your smiles were infectious and your laughter contagious and your silliness put twenty laugh lines to wrinkle my face.
I would count each wrinkle a blessing.
I would start counting your fingers and all of your toes, I’d count both ears, both eyes, and your nose. Each one would be a blessing.
I’d count legs and arms and all of your teeth, as well as all the bones that lay beneath. Each one would be a blessing.
Counting your hairs would sure add up, but still couldn’t come close enough. Yet, each one would be a blessing.
Because counting the blessings I have due to you aren’t countable, measurable, fathomable, or explainable.
And I count that a blessing.
(Another mommy poem by Julie Kent)