Dear Imaginary Son and Daughter,
Let me get straight to the point: I’m not entirely sure I’m cut out for this parenting gig. When I was little, I learned about childbirth and boldly declared to my mom, “I will never push a watermelon out of my body!” Her laughter hinted at the inevitability of change, but here I am at 32, still holding onto that sentiment.
The reason I’m writing this is simple: I dream of having you both someday. I envision sitting at a table surrounded by my grown-up kids, enjoying birthday cake while you insist I look a decade younger than my age. I want to have leisurely Sunday brunch with you, Daughter, and see my quirks reflected in your mannerisms. And you, Son, I can picture you helping me with the garden despite my infamous black thumb—because I crave beauty around me.
Future Me is already in love with you both, drifting into our shared life like a cozy, well-worn chair. She’s embraced the grey hair and embodies a fabulous mix of Ellen Burstyn’s elegance and Diane Keaton’s wardrobe, with a voice reminiscent of Kathleen Turner. Future Me is certain that finding you and bringing you into my life is the right choice. However, Present Me still has reservations, and for that, I ask for your understanding.
Right now, I know I need a partner by my side to help navigate this journey. I want a strong foundation to lean on, someone willing to share the weight of parenting. Without that, I fear I won’t make it up this steep hill alone. I often envy those who seem to have an innate maternal instinct.
I’m scared, and I worry I might be lacking whatever that “mommy gene” is supposed to be. Yet, I believe that finding someone with their own nurturing qualities could help me piece together what might resemble a capable parent. I have faith that the right partner will come along eventually—some days, that faith is stronger than others.
Despite my love for my routines and stable life, I feel a restlessness that sometimes surprises me. I’ve driven to Canada on a whim, and I’ve had days where I might overfeed the cat and disappear for a while. I treasure my solitude and often find joy in writing, reading, or simply floating in my own thoughts. It’s a selfish existence—I can afford to be.
Giving up that silence and mental space will be a challenge. I’m not quite ready to prioritize the needs of others over my own, but you deserve nothing less than my best. I promise to work towards that, but forgive me if I falter. There will be times when I struggle to remember that my life is no longer solely my own, and I may feel overwhelmed by your constant demands. I apologize in advance for those moments.
I’m sorry for not being prepared for you yet. I’m sorry for being single and bored, for having a lackluster maternal drive, and for knowing that the adjustment period after you arrive will be tough. I’m sorry for my moodiness, my inability to hide jealousy, my penchant for embellishing stories, and how I can become snappy when social interactions overwhelm me.
I realize that while Future Me has a clear vision of our lives together, Present Me will be the one you call “Mom.” I promise to give it my all, even though I know my best may not always measure up. I will teach you about love, laughter, forgiveness, and how to navigate life’s hurdles, from dealing with bullies to mastering the art of witty sarcasm.
The longer I write this letter, the more it feels like a self-critique. I often feel inadequate compared to those around me. But I need to remind myself what I would tell you: everyone has their own strengths. As someone once said, comparison is the thief of joy, so I need to let go of that mindset. You are more than enough, and simply showing up each day is a victory.
As I wrap up this letter, I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing a decent job of conveying my thoughts. I should probably return to my other tasks—staying on track is another area where I could use improvement.
I promise to share with you the things I excel at. I won’t scold you when you mess up while cooking. I’ll reveal the secrets to great stone soup and how to make your space look like it’s from West Elm on an IKEA budget. I’ll teach you how to knit a scarf, how to navigate conversations with strangers, and how to enjoy a meal alone without feeling sad. I’ll instill in you the importance of reading and listening, and that honesty is paramount while fear is simply part of life.
Trust me: It won’t always be smooth sailing. We’ll make mistakes and sometimes worsen our own messes. But one day, whether it’s sunny hollandaise over poached eggs or planting tulip bulbs, we’ll come together, and I’ll finally understand that I’m ready to embrace this beautiful, chaotic adventure of being your mother.
Summary
This heartfelt letter from a hopeful future parent to imaginary children reflects on the challenges and uncertainties of parenthood. The writer expresses a desire for a partner to share the parenting journey and acknowledges their fears about not being ready. Despite self-doubt and a yearning for independence, the author promises to teach valuable life lessons and embrace the beautiful messiness of family life.
Keyphrase
Imaginary Parenting Journey
Tags
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