Neala & Lincoln,

I can’t quit crying. 

No seriously. I can’t stop. 

Maybe it’s because I just had a baby and my hormones are still on a roller coaster. 

Maybe it’s because I’m running on little to no sleep. 

Perhaps it’s because I got an infection and the antibiotics the doctor gave me make me even more sick. 

Maybe it’s because I’ve been packing instead of napping. (And by packing I mean bossing my friends & family and telling them what to pack)

Maybe it’s because having another baby makes me miss my daddy horribly. 

Maybe it’s because the last two weeks have been nothing short of crazy, hectic, hormonal & overwhelming. 

Maybe it’s all of the above. 

Tonight is the last night in our house. Only it’s not just a house, it’s our home. 

Neither one of you will have memories of this home, you’re both too small to have collected any. But I’ve got a heart full of the good, bad, ugly and beautiful. 

This was the first home your daddy and I bought together. This was the home we brought you both to as newborns. (Lincoln, you are technically still a newborn. You aren’t even three weeks old)

Neala, you learned to walk in this home. Daddy and I clapped like crazy when you started wobbling around the living room floor. I figure by now you’ve probably run 128,000 laps around the island in the kitchen. 

  
You’ve both peed & pooed on our already worn out couches. 

Your hungry infant cries have pierced through every square inch of this home in the wee hours of the night. 

Your sweet baby aromas gently flow through every room. 

  
But you two are not the only reason I love this home. 
Countless friends and family have walked through our front door. We’ve shared meals and laughs and life together. 

My heart is full of memories I made here with my daddy. He taught me how to caulk a bathtub here. He helped me dig up bushes, install a garbage disposal, and fix a leaky sink. He and I put together Neala’s crib. 

  
In the spring months your PawPaw and JoJo would come here after church every Sunday to eat lunch with us. After lunch JoJo would stay inside to play with Neala. He and I would go outside and pull weeds, plant flowers, or when he became too tired we would just sit on the porch and talk. 

I know we will make more memories in our new home. But tonight I unashamedly cry for the ones made here. 

Your father isn’t nearly as emotional as I am. His emotions run consistent and steady while mine tend to swing to epic highs and lows. But he mentioned tonight he was a little sad to leave. His face became a little sad and I could see him reflecting on the past five years. 

Then in true James Doyle fashion he was over it. He smirked and asked if I would cry this much every time we moved. 

Yes. Yes I most likely will. 

There’s an old song I remember my sister singing. I looked up the lyrics tonight. It captures my feelings quite well. 

“If these old walls

If these old walls could speak

Of things that they remembered well

Stories and faces dearly held

A couple in love

Livin’ week to week

Rooms full of laughter

If these walls could speak
If these old halls

If hallowed halls could talk

These would have a tale to tell

Of sun goin’ down and dinner bell

And children playing at hide and seek

From floor to rafter

If these halls could speak
They would tell you that I’m sorry

For bein’ cold and blind and weak

They would tell you that it’s only

That I have a stubborn streak

If these walls could speak
If these old fashioned window panes were eyes

I guess they would have seen it all

Each little tear and sigh and footfall

And every dream that we came to seek

Or followed after

If these walls could speak
They would tell you that I owe you

More than I could ever pay

Here’s someone who really loves you

Don’t ever go away

That’s what these walls would say”

Dear Neala, 

I am 37 weeks pregnant. It’s is 5:30 a.m. and I am wide awake. I have a feeling your brother will be here soon. There are a few things I want to tell you before I become a sleep deprived, emotional zombie. 

I’m nervous. Nervous about having two very young children instead of one.  You will be 17 months old when your brother is born.

Nervous about how I will balance taking care of two young children with housework, schoolwork, being a wife, etc…
I know, I know, mothers around the world do this all the time.  In fact, any mother of multiple children is smirking right now. One of my best friends has five children.  FIVE.
If she can do it, surely I can with two!
In a few months, I will read back over this letter and probably (hopefully) smirk too.
But today, in this moment, I’m not smirking.  I’m wondering.

Wondering how I can possibly love someone more than I love you.  My mommy friends tell me “your heart just makes room”.  How can my heart make room when it’s overwhelmingly full?

It’s funny because when you were born I didn’t immediately feel warm and fuzzy.  I would love to say intense feelings of love came over me the moment I held you in my arms.  The truth is, all I can remember is feeling relief.  And hunger. 

 I said something along the lines of, “Thank God that is over.  Can I eat some warm bread now?” (Don’t judge me.  Until you’ve had a baby, you have NO idea…)

The pressure to take care of a newborn shouted so loudly in my head, all I felt was responsibility.  And leaving the hospital?  Whoa.  Wasn’t ready for that at all.
I kept thinking, “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness. They are letting us take her out of the hospital. The place with all the professionals who know what they are doing. We are now in charge of another human being. What have we gotten ourselves into?”

A few weeks later is when the warm fuzzies came.  It was the middle of the night and I was rocking you in your room. The house was quiet and you had fallen asleep in my arms. My body ached for sleep, yet I couldn’t put you in your crib.  I wanted our sweet moment to last forever.
The tears started falling. And falling. And falling.
I’m not sure when they stopped.  And I don’t remember laying you in your crib and going back to bed.
I just remember that night. 

That moment. 

That is when I finally felt like a mama.

I also remember wondering that night how in the world could I ever drop you off at Kindergarten? Take you to get a driver’s license? Say goodbye when you left for college?
I realize now these overwhelming questions were probably the “I just had a baby” hormones talking.

Every month you grew and did something new. At times I felt my heart would burst with all the love and joy you brought to me. Your daddy and I loved reading to you and watching your eyes grow wide with wonder.  We giggled when you first started to “ooh” and “ahh”.  Like most new parents, we thought (and still think) everything you do is amazing and intelligent.

How will I feel when your brother arrives?  I have no idea.  I’m trusting my mommy friends are right and my heart will make room.

I’m hoping to find the balance between cuddling a newborn and playing with a toddler.
I’m praying for strength to stay up all hours of the night with him, then chase you around all day.
I’m asking God for grace ahead of time.  I’m no fool.  The next few months will be challenging to say the least. Several mothers who had children close together have told me how great it is…when they are older. All of them warned me the first 3-4 months will push me to my limits physically and emotionally. 
Nice.

The next next few months aren’t just going to rock my world. Things will change for you too. Here are a few things I want to make sure you know and remember:

Being your mother is the best thing I have ever done.  When we first got married your dad and I didn’t even think we wanted children.  Now I can’t imagine our life without you.

You are going to be a fabulous big sister. I can already see a leader emerging in you. There’s no telling what sort of trouble you will talk Lincoln into!

You make me the best version of myself. (At times you also make me the worst version of myself, but I’ll save that for another letter.) Having you has made me a more loving wife, a more compassionate teacher, and definitely a more appreciative daughter. I think I owe my mother a thank you card every week for the rest of my life. 

You won’t be my only child anymore, but you will always be the first. The first to split my heart wide open and fill it with joy and excitement and wonder and energy and all the other great things I could list but if I did this would turn into a run-on sentence. Oh wait…

You were the first to show me what being a mother feels like. 

The first to show me what a great team your daddy and I make as parents. 

And the first to shoot poo across the couch and ottoman onto our living room floor. 

It’s easy to see why you are, and will always be my favorite girl. 

Dear son,

When my doctor put me on bedrest last month, I did my best to maintain joy and a positive attitude.   In effort to push out frustration and dread, I quickly made a mental list of all the positives:

1. I would get lots of extra time with Neala.
2. I could catch up on a few books I had recently started but never finished.
3. I would write more letters for this blog. The letters would be beautiful and inspiring. When you were old enough to read them, you would marvel at mommy’s writing.

Turns out bedrest is not exactly restful.  Or productive.
I would say it’s completely exhausting, physically and mentally.

I did enjoy the extra time with Neala, once my doctor took me off the crazy meds that turned me into a psycho. But I didn’t finish any of the books.
And those inspiring letters?  Yeah, didn’t happen. I feel as if my brain has turned to mushy mashed potatoes. Have I forgotten how to write a complete sentence?

But today is a special day. I’m pushing my mushy brain to its limit and forcing it to think clearly.  See, today your father and I celebrate our 10 year anniversary.  I know it’s hard to believe I’ve been married 10 years when I hardly look a day over 25…

I want to take time today to tell you about your dad.  By the time you are old enough to read these letters you will already know quite a bit about him. But here are just a few of the many things I love about him:

1. Your dad is one of the most intelligent men I have even known.  Seriously.  He reads something once and remembers it.  Forever.
He buys logical reasoning and algebra books.  For fun.
He takes LSAT practice tests on a regular basis. (Law School Admission Test)
Even though he already passed the LSAT.
And graduated from Law School.
And has been a practicing attorney for quite some time.

While I may never encourage you to buy an algebra book for fun, I will encourage you to be like your father.  I hope you love learning and sharpening your brain as much as he does.

2. Your daddy is funny. At times, downright silly.  But he doesn’t show this side of himself to many people.  I actually prefer it this way.  It’s sort of nice being in the small group of people who see him in a different light. Obviously his job requires him to be serious and professional. But when he comes home and rolls around on the floor with Neala, acting like a complete goofball, I grin from ear to ear.  I giggle when Notre Dame scores a touchdown and he jumps off the couch and starts doing the Irish Jig.

3. Your father loves God.  Really, truly, wholeheartedly loves God.  As you grow older you will find this to be true. You will observe this love in how he treats his family and friends. You will notice how he treats me with respect. You will appreciate how hard he works to be involved in your life.  In time you will realize it is the God your father loves and serves who helps him do these things.

4. Your dad has made me a better person.  Which is ironic, because when we first got married I was certain it was my job to make him a better person.

He has taught me to choose my words wisely and to never speak in absolutes. He is very steady, rarely if ever letting his emotions control his thoughts or actions.  I could definitely use some help in this area. He is disciplined and  loyal.  He makes me want to be a better person in my thoughts, words and actions.

Our anniversary is today, May 7th. But a few days ago he brought home a present and said I could open it early.  Here’s what it looks like hanging on your wall.

L is for Lincoln.  That’s right!! He agreed we could name you Lincoln.  We were back and forth between Harrison and Lincoln.  I reeeeeally wanted Lincoln, but he wasn’t a huge fan.  He went to the store and bought a giant L to hang in your nursery.  When I opened the bag I screamed like a schoolboy screaming like a girl.

So now you have a name. And after 10 years I can finally say I talked your dad into something…