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To the person who falls in love with my daughter someday

When she finds that love with you, I want you to know…

To the person who falls in love with my daughter someday

I just finished building a tall tower with my daughter. She looked at me with her big blue eyes and said, “Mom, will you sit with me and play?” So I did. We stacked and chatted and stacked some more.


She told me all about how she wants to be an astronaut when she’s big. But also a ballerina and a mom. And also maybe a ninja. And probably a teacher. So I told her she can be anything she wants to be when she grows up.

I love listening to her dreams.

But one day—instead of building towers with me, she'll be building a life with you. She’ll be sharing her dreams with you—and then, together, you’ll make them come true.

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You will be the person she goes to with those big blue eyes. To encourage her. To inspire her. To lift her up. To dream with.

Right now, I am the moon and the stars to her. And her to me. She looks at me like I’m the smartest, most beautiful, amazing person she’s ever met. (It’s pretty nice, I’m not going to lie.)

But one day, those eyes will shine only for you. You will be her whole solar system.

And I want her to experience that kind of love. That earth-shattering, knee-buckling, palms-sweating, heart-thumping, borderline-fainting kind of love.

So when she does, when she finds that love with you, I want you to know…

I’ve raised my baby to be kind, compassionate and confident.

To believe she can do anything and be anything.

To know her worth and to speak up for herself.

To be brave and to understand her power.

To work hard and protect the people she loves.

To be funny and thoughtful and grateful.

To not be afraid of taking up space and to hold a captive audience.

To demand to be heard.

To be honest and fair and hopefully, all around, a good human.

I know you will embrace every bit of her, and treat her like the queen that she is. Because I know in my heart that she will choose another good human to spend her life with.

So when that happens, I will thank you from the bottom of my heart, for truly seeing her. For being her equal, her partner. For respecting her dreams and goals and cheering her on every step of the way.

I hope you inspire each other and will encourage one another to be the best version of yourselves possible.

I am going to love you, too, you know. I promise to get to know you and welcome you into our family with loving arms. To treat you like one of my own.

I’ll be so proud of you both. For loving each other fiercely and passionately. And for creating a relationship based on mutual love and respect.

She often jokes, at 4 years old, that she’s going to “marry Daddy” when she’s a grown up. That won’t happen, because, well… he’s taken. But if she decides to marry you, I will be there for any bit of help you need to navigate the world of wedding planning. I’ll be involved or not involved—whatever you want. (As long as the song ‘Shoop’ goes on your reception playlist, I’m good.)

And let me just ease any worries by saying—whether you two marry or never marry, no matter your gender, race, ethnicity, religion or profession—I will support you. I will love you.

But if you two do decide to marry, I will be breathless—I’m sure—when I see my daughter on her wedding day.

I’ll cry and tell her she’s the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.

I’ll gently help her put her veil on while I remind her how she used to pretend her towel was a veil after bath time when she was little. “I’m a bride like you were, Mommy!” she’d say as she admired herself in the mirror asking for a pair of “princess shoes” (aka high heels).

She is truly out-of-this-world amazing.

She is going to grow into the best woman you’ve ever known.

She is going to be a supportive, loyal partner. And a loving, funny friend.

So when you two fall in love—please treat each other kindly. Have each other’s backs. Never stop believing in each other.

I promise to be here as much as you need me, and like my mother-in-law taught me—I’ll never show up without a pot of sauce and meatballs.

I felt lost as a new mother, but babywearing helped me find myself again

I wish someone had told me before how special wearing your baby can be, even when you have no idea how to do it.

My first baby and I were alone in our Brooklyn apartment during a particularly cold spring with yet another day of no plans. My husband was back at work after a mere three weeks of parental leave (what a joke!) and all my friends were busy with their childless lives—which kept them too busy to stop by or check in (making me, at times, feel jealous).

It was another day in which I would wait for baby to fall asleep for nap number one so I could shower and get ready to attempt to get out of the house together to do something, anything really, so I wouldn't feel the walls of the apartment close in on me by the time the second nap rolled around. I would pack all the diapers and toys and pacifiers and pump and bottles into a ginormous stroller that was already too heavy to push without a baby in it .

Then I would spend so much time figuring out where we could go with said stroller, because I wanted to avoid places with steps or narrow doors (I couldn't lift the stroller by myself and I was too embarrassed to ask strangers for help—also hi, New Yorkers, please help new moms when you see them huffing and puffing up the subway stairs, okay?). Then I would obsess about the weather, was it too cold to bring the baby out? And by the time I thought I had our adventure planned, the baby would wake up, I would still be in my PJs and it was time to pump yet again.

Slowly, but surely, and mostly thanks to sleep deprivation and isolation, I began to detest this whole new mom life. I've always been a social butterfly. I moved to New York because I craved that non-stop energy the city has and in the years before having my baby I amassed new friends I made through my daily adventures. I would never stop. I would walk everywhere just to take in the scenery and was always on the move.

Now I had this ball and chain attached to me, I thought, that didn't even allow me to make it out of the door to walk the dog. This sucks, I would think regularly, followed by maybe I'm not meant to be a mom after all.


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