Please forgive me.
I may be an imperfect human in many ways, but there's one area of life I got right: I'm a good friend. I listen. I make plans. I make phone calls. I show up.
The relationships I've built with you all—which range from elementary school buds to college roommates to my own siblings—are incredibly important to me. Being a good friend to you is part of the fabric of my identity. You top my list of priorities.
And then... I had a baby. This wonderful, sweet, spunky daughter became the center of my world overnight and takes up all of the time I once invested in my friendships.
Now my sentences are fragmented, broken by cries of hunger or bedtime. And the time I do spend with you guys includes heading to another room for hours at a time so that my easily distracted little munchkin will actually eat and take a nap. As we both know, most of my texts start with, "So sorry I didn't see this!"
I'm one of the first of us to have children, which makes it a little bit harder to turn down the invites to celebrate 30th birthdays in Mexico or go to bachelorette parties. I may say it's because money is tight or I'm breastfeeding, but truthfully, I can't yet imagine leaving my daughter for even one night.
I'm loving my new role as a mother, and I think I'm doing a pretty great job. But I also miss being able to be a good friend.
As I nurse my baby to sleep, I imagine days in the future when my children have grown and I can take off for a girls weekend, and we can spend hours drinking margaritas by a pool. I remind myself to email you about these dreams, but of course, I never find the time.
When I do get a few spare moments, I choose to spend them having an actual conversation with my husband, who deserves his own letter of gratitude—but we are in this together, so he gets it.
For now, I ask you, my dear friends, for forgiveness and patience. Please don't forget me. I am still here.
And I already know you don't forget me because you show up for me—wanting to love my little girl the way that I already do.
You send me videos of how you sang her a bunch of lullabies. You booked plane tickets to see us. You bring food, and paper plates and you change diapers.
And when you ask how I am and I answer that my baby laughed for the first time, you smile and cheer, but then remember to ask, "Yes, but how are you?"
I am in a stage of life where my well-being will always come second to me—but not to you. You remember to look for me, to see me beyond my role of mother.
To my friends, thank you. I love you. I need your stories and your laughter now more than ever. Thank you for having the grace to understand that I just may need to hear you in smaller increments of time.
One day we can laugh about this over margaritas by the pool. 😉