To: My Two Year Old

That’s right.  Molly Jean turned TWO years old last week.  Two.  2.  Dos.  II. 

No matter how I say it or type it, I still can’t believe it. 

In one instance, I want to say, “Wow, where has the time gone?”  And, in the next breath, I think, “Really?  She’s only two?” 

When They say “the days go slow and the years go fast”, I’d say they’ve hit that nail on the head.  Big Time.

On one hand it feels like just yesterday we brought her home from the hospital. 

Then, on the other hand, it doesn’t.  It feels like we’ve had two solid years of diapers, nursing, sleep cycle changes, solid foods, crawling, weaning, teething, walking, leg splints, traveling with a baby, running, scraped knees, busted lips, meltdowns, giggles, books, toys, all things Frozen, sippy cups, moodiness, twirling, swinging, and talking. (Phew.) 

Yes, it has gone by sooo fast. 

But not really. 

See, it’s a constant dichotomy.      

And, it’s tricky to parent in such circumstances. 

On one hand, I want to capture every single moment on camera.  I want to celebrate every cute expression, be present for each new word, soak in all of your sweetness, and be able to write a novel about all the small things that make you Molly Jean Langford. 

Then, on the other hand, I’m just your parent.  Not a stalker or a crazed fan. 

I’ve been charged to raise, teach, guide, and love you.  Not worship you. 

I’ve only been your mother for two years, but I can already see how these great ironies of parenthood are present everywhere.

I want you to grow up feeling loved, safe, and valued, but I don’t want you to become a mini deity in our home or feel entitled to anything.

I want to provide you with an environment to grow, learn, and achieve your dreams, but I don’t want you to take it for granted or let it go by the waste side.

I want you to come to me when you have questions, concerns, or thoughts about life, but I don’t want to be your best friend (until after you’re 18) or your crutch.

I want to show up at every extracurricular activity you have, but I don’t want us to be consumed by your busy schedule or calendar.   

I want you to love others and make lasting friendships, but I don’t want you to depend on people for your joy or security. 

I want to encourage you to follow your heart and chase your dreams, but I want you to understand that it involves hard work and perseverance. 

I want you to try new things and press forward, but I don’t want you to think that excludes making mistakes or experiencing failure.

I want to give you every opportunity you desire, but I don’t want you to not know how to cope when things get hard or don’t go your way.

I pray that you are successful in life, but I don’t want it to be by the world’s standards.

I’ll be honest.  When I read this list of my hopes and dreams for you, I can panic.  I can take the selfish approach and think:  How am I going to teach you all of these things?  Chances are my life – words, actions, attitude - won’t always align with these desires I have for you. 

Some days I will fall short.  Some days I will be cranky.  Some days I will be so consumed by a schedule, we’ll feel like little hamsters on that pinwheel toy.  There will be times when I snap at you, embarrass you, give lame advice, annoy you, or have to miss something of yours.  I don’t have all the answers now, and I imagine it’ll remain that way for a long, long time.     

 But, that’s because I’m your parent.  Not your Savior. 

I’m your guardian.  Not your Creator.

I’m your mother.  Not your Lord.

I can give you a good life.  Not Eternal Life. 

I want you to experience joy, freedom, peace, adventure, and love in this life, but as your parent, I have to remember, I am not the source or foundation for any of these. 

I won’t be able to do anything perfect.  I will miss the mark daily.  But if I learn how to do one thing well as your mom, I pray it’s the ability to point to Christ. 

There will be times when I’m tired, unsure, under qualified, hurt, confused, or ill equipped, but I hope through all those obstacles, you still see my eyes raised, my hands open, and my knees to the ground. 

I can give you all of my love.  I can give you all of my support.  I can give you all of my time, energy, devotion, and resources.  Everything I have is yours.  But it won’t save you.  It won’t redeem you.  And, it doesn’t identify you. 

I held you as you took your first breaths.  I cuddled you on my chest as your umbilical cord was cut.  I kissed you and cried while your squishy, sticky, and bloody little body wiggled and wailed against me.  Those beautiful memories are mine, and my perspective on life has greatly altered since that moment. 

You are my family, and that old saying has never rung more true: blood is thicker than water.  I will battle for you, defend you, stand up for you, and fight for you.  I would give my life up for you. 

But the blood He shed for you is thicker than anything I can offer. 

I am your mother, but you are His daughter. 

And, the greatest gift I can give you is to remember that in all I do. 

From every mundane activity to the most pivotal moments in your life, I pray I see you first as a Daughter of the King. 

With that perspective, I am looking forward to the years ahead.  The training wheels, first days of school, junior high, Driver’s Ed, Prom.  They will all be seasons that we experience alongside of you with excitement and nostalgia, but for now, we will enjoy your third year. 

We’ll listen for your new words.  We will embark on potty training, and maybe even a “big girl” bed.   We may find out about those “Terrible Two’s”, and we’ll learn more about your personality as it blossoms. 

Yes, parenting is full of ironies and paradoxes, but that’s the beauty of it.  If it was simple and formulaic, we’d forget we can’t do it on our own.  If it was easy, we wouldn’t need grace for all of our shortcomings.  If it was a walk in the park, I’d claim you as my own prize.  My work of art.  My doing.  My masterpiece.  When, really, you’re His, His, His. 

Yes, I have dreams, desires, prayers, and hopes for you in this life, but they’re all secondary to you knowing and loving Him.  Because, while our hearts ache for how much we love you, He loved you so much that He gave His one and only Son for you. 

So, no matter how broken or imperfect we are, we point.  No matter how prideful or humbled we feel, we point. 

We point to Christ because your two years were written in His book before any of them came to be. 

We love you so much, Molly Jean, that we point. 

All you need to do is look up.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. 

From:  Paige (Mama)