Dear Reagan,
We had established a routine. I would wake up at 7:00 a.m., throw on my bathrobe, make myself a cup of coffee, and then watch you sleep before waking you up at 7:30 a.m. to eat. After a leisurely feeding, we would spend the morning playing on your gym, looking at things outside, doing tummy time, and “dancing” to the toddler station on Pandora. I could kiss you whenever I wanted. I could snuggle you for as long as I wanted. I could bear witness to your absorbing of the world with utter fascination and determination.
This morning everything was different. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to put on makeup, straighten my hair, and put on something appropriately business casual. I rushed downstairs to pack my pump, pump parts, and cooler. I carefully measured out bottles of milk for you to consume that day. I picked out an outfit for you to wear and set it out for you to be changed into. I made sure that all of your stations were in order for the day: diapers at the changing station, toys at your activity gym, pacifier near your bouncer, swaddle blanket ready for naptime. I woke you up at 7:30 – desperately trying to keep your routine though aching to have woken you up earlier – and fed you with tears welling up in my eyes as I watched the clock inch forward. A quick kiss, a long hug, and I handed you off to our nanny, Caroline, while I toppled out the door carrying a hospital grade pump and an oversized bag consumed with all the appropriate parts.
I spent my morning as a lawyer. Working on my computer screen instead of working at making you smile. Reading legal briefs instead of reading you “Goodnight Moon.” Painstakingly pumping at my desk instead of looking down at your sweet face while nursing you.
My body is physically incapable of being away from you for more than three hours (hence, the pump). I spent my day wondering if that is because babies and their mothers are supposed to be together at the beginning.
I wish I could tell you that I was “so busy at work I hardly had time to be sad.” I wish I knew, like really knew inside my core, that it would get easier.
I feel a hole inside me knowing that I missed you today — that I missed day 91 of your life.
I love you forever and always,
Mom
Van Plus Fam 