Is Love Enough?

Dear Baby Boy,

People keep telling me what we will need for when you arrive: bouncy things, special bottle cleaners, gas drops, and even a pee-tent. I try to write it all down. I try to make a list that I will remember. Then in a moment of sanity, I cross it all out and remind myself to simplify it all – surely, little boys don’t need that much. I try to focus on the essentials. I try to focus on real heart-to-heart needs.

I know your daddy and I can give you a lot. I know we’ve got a lot of love. I know we’ve got a lot of faith. We have boundaries and laughter and grace in our home. We have screw-ups and mistakes and we say a whole lot of “I’m sorrys.” We can teach you forgiveness and show you joy, I hope. We can give you us, but do you think that’s enough? Is that enough love to live off of?

I’ve been thinking a lot about family. Your little cousin was born 3 weeks ago. Good Lord, is he cute. He’s growing and changing and he’s all brown hair and pouty lip and bright, alert eyes. I keep looking at pictures of him – pictures he’s never alone in. He’s being held by your uncle and your nanny and friends and family that knew me when I was little too. He gets nuzzled by the dogs and taken for strolls in the Colorado sunshine and I’m just so happy to see him surrounded by that much love. I’m so happy he gets to know that kind of wholeness. I hope it’s the most completing kind of love for him. I hope it fills him everyday.

But you only get us. You only get me.

I can’t give you Colorado. I can’t give you New York.

I can only give you what’s here. Just me and your dad. Just the three of us.

I know there are airplanes and holidays and cards and Skype. I know there are phone calls and video cameras and photos that we can frame. I know that love comes through iPhones and Nanny’s neat cursive and the long drives between states.

I know that love multiplies.

I know it is not held by distances.

I know it is not bound by time.

But this is all I can offer you, sweet baby boy. All I can give you is me. All I can give to you each day is my hand to hold, my arms to be cradled in, and my heart to beat in sync with yours. I can only give you my voice to sing you to sleep and read you your bedtime stories.

I can’t give you Colorado. I can’t give you New York.

I can only give you what’s here – our family, this family – and I hope we’re enough.

I hope our love can be enough.