Dear Baby, I'm Sorry I Didn't Know Better

A letter every new parent needs to read, and one they might want to hold onto forever.

Dear Baby,

There are a thousand things I want to tell you. But tonight, with you finally asleep on my chest, your breath warm and steady, your tiny fingers curled around nothing at all, what I want to say most is this:

I'm sorry. And I love you more than I have words for. And somehow, both of those things are true at the same time.

"I was learning to be your parent at the same moment I was trying to be enough for you. I hope one day you understand how hard I tried."

I Didn't Know How Much the Early Days Would Matter

Before you arrived, I thought the newborn phase was just about survival. About keeping you fed and clean and safe until you became, well, more. More awake. More interactive. More like a little person I could talk to and know.

I didn't understand then that you were already a little person. That you were already listening when I spoke. That the warmth of my skin against yours was telling your nervous system that the world was safe. That every time I responded to your cry, I was teaching you something you would carry for the rest of your life, that your needs matter, and that someone will come.

I wish I had known sooner. I would have held you even more.

I'm Sorry for the Times I Listened to Everyone Except You

People had a lot of opinions about how to raise you. Sleep train early, they said. Don't hold them too much, you'll spoil them. Let them cry it out. Put them on a schedule. Make them independent.

And I was so tired. So uncertain. So desperate to do this right. So I listened.

But you were always telling me what you needed. In the pitch of your cry. In the way you calmed when I picked you up. In the way you searched for my eyes across a room. You were communicating fluently in a language I was only beginning to learn.

I should have trusted you more. I should have trusted myself more.

I'm Sorry for the Moments I Was There But Not Present

I want you to know something about the early months of your life: they were the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened to me. And also, sometimes, I was looking at my phone while they passed.

I was exhausted, yes. I was anxious. I was trying to keep up with work and laundry and all the relentless logistics of keeping a tiny human alive. But sometimes I was just... somewhere else. And you were right there, doing the most remarkable things,  noticing a shadow on the wall, making a sound you'd never made before, watching your own hand move through the air like it was the most fascinating thing in the universe.

I'm sorry for every moment I missed. And I promise to try harder to be here, fully here, for every moment that remains.

"You will not remember these early days. But your body will. Your sense of safety, your capacity for love, your ability to trust, it's all being written right now, in every moment I choose to show up for you."

I'm Learning. I Promise I'm Learning.

I've since discovered things I wish I'd known from the start. About how much tummy time matters. About how the toys you play with are quietly shaping your developing mind. About how the way I talk to you is building the architecture of your language, your thinking, your sense of self.

I've learned that parenthood isn't a performance. That's good enough, done with love, and is genuinely enough. That asking for help isn't failure, it's how villages are built, and babies are raised well.

I am not the parent I was on the day you were born. I am better. And tomorrow, I will be better still. Because you deserve someone who keeps growing, and so do I.

What I Want You to Know

When you are old enough to read these words, I want you to know something about the beginning of your life:

You were wanted. Deeply, wildly, completely wanted.

You were loved before I ever met you. You were loved in the middle of the night when I was too tired to think. You were loved through every mistake I made and everything I got wrong.

Every choice I made, even the imperfect ones, was made with you at the center of it.

And here is the truest thing I know: you will not remember the mistakes. But you will carry, in the warmth of your bones, the fact that you were held. That someone came when you called. There was always a pair of arms that felt like home.

"The greatest gift I can give you isn't a perfect childhood. It's a parent who is honest, growing, and endlessly, unconditionally here."

I am still learning how to be your parent. I probably always will be. But I promise you this that I will never stop trying.

All my love, every single day,

Mum / Dad ♡