The year is 2007. I remember it clearly. The evening of October 23rd.

Charlie is jumping on the couch in our tiny living room. Just days shy of two years old, the warm glow of the lamp on the end table highlights his white-blonde locks as he flies through the air. He bounces and falls from this cushion to that one, blissfully unaware of how drastically his life is about to change.

Snug in his pajama’s, Charlie is preparing to leave for a couple of nights at my in-laws. In the morning, Chad and I will rise early and drive to the hospital and will not return home until our family of three has turned into a family of four.

I stand, watching Charlie jump around in his sweet innocence and a lump forms in my throat. I reflect on my deep love for my sweet boy and wonder–how will I ever love another like this? Can I love another like this?

—

I think about the worries I had back then-can I love two? Will my heart really expand? Can I love another child like I love Charlie?–and I smile at my naiveté.

My answer arrived clearly and swiftly the following afternoon.

Sixteen years ago today, I learned that yes, I can love another child like I love Charlie. I learned that the heart really does expand. I learned that I absolutely can love two children. And, most importantly, I learned that love does not divide, it multiplies.

Sixteen years ago today, Chanelle entered our world and and our world (and dare I say, the world) is better for it.

Chanelle,

The day you were born, the song Welcome to Our World by Chris Rice played on repeat in the hospital room. Even today, when I hear the first keys of that song, I am transported back to the darkened hospital room when we first heard the words, It’s a girl!

Your dad stood on one side of me, my Mom on the other. There were tears all around. Even the nurse was crying when she exclaimed, This is so beautiful!

I held you close that day. I breathed in your sweet baby smells. I said a quiet prayer of thanks to God. And added in, help us to keep her safe.

—

You may not understand this now, Chanelle, but someday you will. As a parent, this is what we long for: to keep you safe. You hear me say it often, Be careful! Watch out! Be safe! For most of your childhood, we long to keep you safe. There have been many, many times, when I have wished to simply wrap you in bubble wrap and to keep all harm away from you.

Don’t climb too high!
Don’t run too fast!
Watch out for that hole in the ground!

Irrationally, I’d like to knock all road blocks out of the way. I’d like to make the road ahead of you smooth and straight. Not a pothole, in sight. Only smooth sailing for my girl!

As you have become older and as I’ve become older, my prayers have shifted.

The thing about bubble wrap is that it doesn’t allow us to see how strong we really are. I no longer want to protect you from all outside forces. Instead, I pray for enough challenges to come your way so that you learn you are competent and capable. I want you to experience enough pain to know that pain won’t kill you. I want enough heartache to come your way to understand that you do not have to walk through anything alone. I want you to learn that pain is a part of living and heartache can make us stronger, if we allow it.

Chanelle, I want you to be challenged and know that you are strong enough to stand up for yourself. I want you to be tested by life so that you learn we are only refined by fire. I want you to look around you and know that, even when you feel like you’re alone–you understand that you are never truly alone.

Yes, I no longer want bubble wrap, because I know that you don’t need it. I’ve watched you for sixteen years, Chanelle.

You are strong.

You are capable.

You are competent.

You have a crowd of people who love you.

You are never, ever alone.

—

You are not my ‘little’ girl anymore, Chanelle. But, in a way, you will always be my little girl. I may not wrap you in bubble wrap, but this is what I want you to know–your dad and I will be your bumpers. When challenges come your way, we are here to sort through them with you. When heartache comes your way, we are here to help soften the blow. When you are uncertain, afraid, or you feel like you can’t go another step, we are here to remind you of your strength.

I am so proud of who you are. I am forever grateful that God chose me to be your Mom.

May this 16th year continue to refine you into the beautiful soul God created you to be.

Happy Sixteenth, Sweet Girl.

Love,

Mom