Three years ago I stood in the hallway of one of our three California rentals, with my arms pressed against the wall above my head and my hips pressed back, groaning and swaying into the night.

With the crib set up and the car seat installed and her due date approaching and her middle name spelled out two different ways on a piece of paper at the corner of Rob’s desk, our daughter’s arrival felt more and more real with each contraction. We had spent the weekend out and about as much as possible, buying an exercise ball at Target and with me sneaking out in the early morning for peppermint extract for mochas and brewer’s yeast for lactation cookies, but finally on Sunday night I accepted the reality that I was in labor and we summoned my aunt, who showed up an hour later to tell us we were doing great and put pressure on my back and fill up the tub for me.

In the early morning I made tea and heated up a pumpkin muffin, thinking that she would arrive that day. She didn’t, but she was close. I couldn’t tell if she was working with me or against me as we drove to the hospital and got checked in and I was poked and prodded and finally settled into a bed.

Another night passed, this one more difficult than the last.

But then there she was, at 5:30 on a Tuesday morning, in my arms before the sun came up, followed closely by a turkey sandwich and a spicy tuna roll.

Our first moments as a family of three are almost a blur to me, but here and now three years later it’s hard to believe she ever wasn’t there.

We’ll give the world to you and you’ll blow us all away.

Two years ago, at 5:30 AM after two and a half days of labor, our daughter was placed into my arms for the first time.

I am a different person than I was two years ago this morning—in a lot of ways I am softer, quicker to tears and bubbling over with feelings; but in even more ways I am stronger, more capable and organized and willing to speak up when I need to. I am less willing to waste time, and I want things to be worth it, and I don’t care about anything as much as I care about my family.

I worry about things beyond my control, and I also worry about things I myself can manage. My abs are slightly less separated but my heart remains cracked open, spilling over with warm post-nap snuggles and fresh-from-the-bath baby skin, with skinned knees and playground slides and running, jump-into-my-arms hugs, with endless verses of “The Wheels on the Bus” and the tiniest little voice chirping up when I least expect it with a sweet “mama, I love you.”

I have also made a lot of chicken nuggets.

Two years ago I had no idea that the sleepy little newborn in the bassinet beside me would grow up to be the spunky, silly, sweet toddler who brightens our days and climbs everything and challenges me in ways I didn’t know was possible. Motherhood so far for me has been the most incredible, rewarding, difficult, and somehow also instinctual thing I’ve ever experienced. Every day I try to be the kind of mom that Sophie deserves—and for the most part that has brought out the best in me.

Sometimes I feel like I am slowly becoming my “old self” again, finding time here and there for myself and picking up a book every few days instead of every few months. But most of the time it is apparent that this woman—the one who scrambles cheesy eggs and spreads butter onto toast and cuts apple slices into matchsticks just in case, who reads Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? too many times to count, who checks the baby monitor before she falls asleep one more time just to see her daughter again—is who I’m supposed to be; at least right now. She is growing so fast and learning so much every day and I don’t want to miss a minute of it.

Two years ago I held our little baby in my arms as they wheeled me from labor and delivery to the maternity wing of the hospital, and I looked down at her face and couldn’t believe she was ours. Even now, two years later I sometimes look at her and am completely awestruck that she didn’t exist and then one day, she just did. I couldn’t be more grateful.

Happy birthday, baby girl. We love you so much.

Dear Sophie,

Mother’s Day weekend is here and I mostly can’t believe how well-rested we all are! This time last year you were sleeping a lot better but we were still up nursing together almost every night or early morning. As excited as I was to leave that part of baby-hood behind and sleep uninterrupted again one day, I must admit that I do sometimes miss your warm little body against mine in our rocking chair at 4:45 AM.

Last year, your dad silently scooped you out of your crib in the corner of our bedroom and let me sleep in (which I always want to do but never actually do), and a couple hours later we were all together again on the couch, a fresh hot latte in my hand and you in my arms.

Being your mom is by far the best, most amazing, most awe-inducing, hardest, but most fun thing I’ve ever done. I miss you when you’re sleeping and wake up excited to see your little face and hear your little voice. We both smile so big when we hear “Mamaaaa! Dadddddaaa!” over the monitor every morning. When Ender wanders into your room you say “Ender! Good boy!” and blow him a kiss.

You’re going to be a year and a half this month and you are constantly blowing me away with everything you do and learn. You are sweet and you share everything and you’re smart and so incredibly funny. It’s an honor to be your mom.

So much love,

Mama