I wrote this letter to you 25 years ago, when you were small and full of hope and dreams. We lived happily and simply in a house full of lots of love and laughter and a whole lot of chaos.
You all alternated between loving me desperately and loathing me just as much. Often were heard the words "I love you" for no reason at all. I always knew, however, that I wasn't being a good enough mom if I heard "I love you" too often, without a spurt of anger thrown in there, because a good mother always makes her children mad. Always.
I have so many hopes for you. I hope that between the writing of this letter and the opening of it, you have said, "when I am a parent, I would never do [insert ordinary motherly crime here] to my children." However, I hope that you've also said, "darnit, now I know why my mother did [ordinary motherly crime]" Because, Lord knows, I've done it a million times, in just the eight years I've been a mom.
I hope that we've seen all 50 states. You know that's a goal of ours, as a family. I hope that you've learned a little about this amazing country that we are blessed to live in. I know that we had so much fun camping and learning and planning our trips. I hope that your memories of each state are vivid and wonderful.
I hope that you are happy. I hope that you are fulfilled. I hope that you have achieved something that you always hoped for. I hope that you are loved by someone who loves you more than I do. Which will be extraordinary, because I loved you more than you know.
This post is a part of a group writing project over at mamablogga. Go check it out -- there's some fun stuff over there!