Hey there, Mama! I see you, and trust me, I understand. I’ve been in your shoes, and it’s tough. As I sit here in my cozy booth at Panera, freshly showered and sipping a hot cup of coffee (which I’ll enjoy while it’s still warm), I can’t help but notice you. You’re not having an easy day, and I can tell.
Your messy ponytail, that shirt on inside out, and those yoga pants you’ve worn for five days tell a story. Your stroller looks like it’s been through a tornado, and the dark circles under your eyes reveal how hard you’re working. And let’s not forget the precious bundle in your arms who just won’t stop screaming.
I see your struggle. How old is she? Ah, 14 weeks — the peak time for colic. I can sense your frustration as you bounce her, hoping she’ll settle down amidst the coffee and cheerful chatter around you. I can imagine that moment this morning when the baby’s cries echoed off the nursery walls, pushing you to grab her and escape the house before you lost your mind.
You wrapped her in her favorite pink blanket, praying for a moment of peace as you buckled her into her carrier. I can see you leaning against the kitchen counter, tired to your core, momentarily savoring the feel of your arms without her. You searched for your keys and wallet like they were relics from a different lifetime.
You thought, “We just need some fresh air,” convincing yourself that a change of scenery might help. But sitting at that stoplight, I can see how tempting it is to close your eyes and drift off, yet you fight the urge, telling yourself, “I’m a mom now; she comes first.”
Your face carries the exhaustion of countless nights pacing the floor, hoping for just a few moments of sleep for both of you. I see the tears as your partner leaves for a day filled with adult conversations and lunch meetings, while you face yet another day of bouncing and dealing with a fussy baby who seems to have an endless supply of cries.
I understand your urge to give in to the exhaustion and admit that this colicky little one isn’t exactly what you envisioned when you saw those two lines on the pregnancy test a year ago. But I want you to know that you matter to me.
As I look at you, I see so much of myself and countless other moms. I see the strength in your arms holding that baby, the determination in your legs as you push the stroller for hours, and the resilience in that deep sigh of yours, declaring, “I will get through this.”
And I see the faith that this phase will pass — she will stop crying, maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually. You know that quiet moments will come, and you’ll find it both strange and nostalgic to miss that tiny voice calling out for you, the one person who loves her most.
I see you sip your coffee, and for just a second, there’s a flicker of relief on your face. It’s fleeting, but it’s there. I’ve been you. One day, you’ll sit where I am — makeup done, hair neat, hot coffee in hand. I promise.
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Summary
This letter acknowledges the struggles of a tired mom dealing with a fussy baby, offering understanding and solidarity. It emphasizes the strength, resilience, and love that mothers embody while navigating the challenges of early motherhood. The piece encourages the reader to recognize that this phase is temporary and that moments of relief will come.