Everly Mae,

Six months ago I was in a foggy stupor when they wheeled you into my hospital room for me to admire. I remember letting you open and close your hand on my pointer finger for almost an entire hour. Afterwards, I asked for you to be taken to the nursery, because I was exhausted. I was in labor for 22 hours, 17 or 18 of them being unmedicated. Once you were gone, I collapsed into your father's arms. He put on a movie and I tried my best to sleep, but I was startled out of it over and over with anxious bursts of energy. I would suffer from a fog-like insomnia for the next few days, and it took weeks before I really felt safe enough to sleep for a few hours without checking on you. I remember feeling afraid the anxiety would consume me... and that I wouldn't be able to care for you.

Right now, you're finishing out a long nap. I'm guessing it's longer because you're getting a bit of the cold I have. I checked your breathing before I came down to write this, it's a habit I don't forsee breaking entirely. A lot of the anxiety has calmed now, but it took time. I made peace with it. Some people tried to rush me into it, worried I would collapse under it's pressure. Your daddy patiently waited, knowing my resilience in the face of fear. As the months have ticked by, I found a confidence growing from the depths of my spirit. God has sent me small signs of my capability.

"She's hungry," I tell someone bouncing you, recognizing the desperation in your short cries. "She is sleepy," I assure someone else, watching them dangle colorful toys in front of you. I see your eyelids become slower with each blink. "She is mad you're dressing her," I tell another as they quickly try to finish zipping up your outfit.

Over these last six months, I have come to know you in a way I wouldn't expect. For most other mothers, it comes naturally, but I was afraid that wouldn't be the case for me.

Right now you like to laugh by breathing through your mouth in whispery huffs. You like practicing drinking from your sippy cup and holding your bottle just long enough to impress us, before you stop because you want us to do the hard work. You like other people much more now, and you study their faces when they hold you. Your aunt and Mamaw say that they feel like you're looking straight through them, because your eyes are so bright and beautiful. You like standing up way more than sitting or lying. You love carrots, which I'm cautiously allowing you to try again, watching for signs of an upset belly (none so far!) You love when your daddy makes strange, high-pitched noises. You laugh for him more than you do for me and sometimes it makes me playfully jealous.

You like your feet and hold onto them often now. It's probably one of the cutest things I've ever seen. Your great-grandma got you some booties that rattle and you'll pick your legs up high in the air and examine them. You like when I read you books and change my voice to match the characters. You love music, but you're very selective (just like me).

You don't like being laid down in your crib for naps, and you usually fuss about 10-15 minutes before you'll go to sleep. Though it's hard on your father and I, I love that about you. You don't give up. You're a fighter. You don't like if we take something away from you that is holding your attention. You don't like being put on your stomach and it only entertains you for 10 minutes before you whine and cry. You know how to roll over very well (both ways), but if you're tired or I'm watching you, you want me to do it for you.

The days of bouncing on the blue ball are almost gone. You're getting bigger, and requiring it less. You're still very tough to get to sleep though sometimes, especially without it. I don't know if you'll outgrow it mentally, but physically it's getting harder for me to rock and bounce my arms to a satisfactory height. I stare at it sometimes in your nursery and remember the hours and hours I spent on it while pregnant, hoping it would speed up your arrival. Then I remember the hours and hours your father and I spent on it once you were here, soothing your tiredness. I know putting it up will be a milestone for our family... a reminder that you're getting older. Becoming a baby... pushing past the newborn stage.

Back when I thought I couldn't do it, I went through all the motions every day with you. I woke up with a smile on my face, grateful that I'd been blessed with you, even though I was so tired. I dressed you in a new outfit every day, smoothing your silky hair down with my fingers. I talked to you about how our day would be, asked you how you slept and what you dreamt about, and made your bottle cheerfully. Sometimes at night when you'd fall asleep, I'd call a friend or family member and ask them how I was going to make it... what if I failed you? I'd cry into the phone. I was so tired all of the time, your father was going to return back to work, and you were crying and I wasn't sure if I knew why.

But I kept moving. Kept going. Because I had to.

And just now, six months down the road, I feel the fog lifting more each day. I feel my confidence growing. I am finding myself as your mother. Trusting myself. Realizing the power of my instinct. Embracing the calmness as a friend, knowing I must take care of you and give you a happy life.

I still stumble in the dark sometimes... but I keep my eyes on you as I trip and fall, finding my way. I invest in the knowledge that I must protect you. I go and watch you sleeping when I need to remind myself of my strength of creating life. I rely on your smile and press your fingers against my lips when I feel unsure. I breathe you in, every second I can.

I know these moments are fleeting, slipping away from my grasp. And there is no time to waste on doubting myself any more.

I have made it. I am with you. We are safe.

And I am so deeply, beautifully, naturally in love with you.