By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
Last April, Minnesota Parent invited readers to participate in an essay contest by expressing their devotion to their children in the form of a "love letter." Reading your essays made us remember why we don't really like these competitions--every one of your letters was touching, heartfelt, and sweet. But since we promised some prizes, we had to finally stop dragging our feet and name some winners.
Rachel Voorhees of Cedar, Minnesota, won first place with her beautiful letter to her three-year-old son, Josiah:
When you were under my heart, curled up like a speckled turtle's egg in the sand, I used to rock in my bed shedding tears to a song by Fleetwood Mac. It had words like this: "Climbed a mountain and turned around. . . . saw my reflection in the snow covered hills, landslide coming down. . . . Children get older, I'm getting older too. . . . So take this love, take it down. . . ."
Pregnancy was like climbing a snow-covered mountain. Up from my youth, over the peak, and to the other side, where I would be a full-time mom.
When I was pregnant, time was the ball that stretched inch by inch out of my waistline. I used to waddle places, Josiah. I waddled, ate lettuce, and prayed; I prayed with my whole self wadded up and focused like a flashlight through a keyhole. I aimed to put my whole self, hung with fireflies and Christmas lights, out where the Great Guy in the Sky (whom I prefer to call Jah), would notice me. I prayed like an arrow from the bow, that you would be easy. Easy enough to walk with me in life with my mistakes just bouncing off of you like ping-pong balls. And you are. Easy.
You listen. When I say quietly, "It's time to go home for dinner," you often take my hand and lead me down the gravel and dust road home. You were born with a patience which you spread out under you like a tablecloth wherever you go.
I go too fast in life. I consider dinner during lunch. For me, going slow is like losing grip on a train I'm attempting to jump. But for you, going slow is like a ladle of molasses and maybe it's better . . . to just wait for the train to stop and let you on.
No matter how much I try to change and be a better mom, Josiah, I will probably be the same me at the root. We all have our roots. You were an entire spirit before you came across me and scuttled into my womb like a turtle. There you slept, all the while I was devouring pizzas and swaying like a weeble-wobble to Stevie Wonder's "I Wish," and "Guava Jam," by Bob Marley. I wanted to teach you what music was; and you came out half-stepping, twirling like a cheerleader's baton on the toss and mimicking the call of the morning dove.
One thing I can tell you, Cy, is that we are all angels and snakes. We are the caves and the starlight at once. We are the boat and the undertow, the lightning and the rain. But we can choose ourselves out of the tornadoes and stillness. We can squeeze our eyes shut and crunch our eyebrows together and shine like a one-hundred-watt light bulb. We can shine and fit together like puzzle pieces in a 3-D vibrating landscape. You and I are in this world. I know we can.
I pray for you to have peace like a stone resting at the bottom of the lake of you. I pray that stone to guide you like a compass as your feet wind on cobblestone and concrete, into canyons and out the other side. I pray you will never outgrow your little turtle shell. Use that shell like a shield, son, to protect your soft underneath.
Your small song rings out beside me now. You are three years out of the belly and balanced like a trapeze artist on the thin beam of today. Your voice and limbs reach out like spaghetti noodles, your heart and mind cover more ground every day. You are expanding like a nova star. I pray I will never dent your will like a hammer on copper. I pray I will never stifle your voice like the lid on a frying pan. I want your body and voice to be your own. I want you to seek heaven and have your prayers answered, just as mine were answered with you.
Second place winner
Candia Lea Cole
It has been fifteen years since I marveled at the sight of your ten fingers and toes for the very first time. Fifteen years...since I gazed into your stellar eyes and reveled in your "wakefulness." You and I shared a once in a lifetime "birth mission" together. You were the 'starship' vehicle that guided me from the fertile fields of young womanhood-to the lush, deep, interior of my maternal landscape. You were my link to nature and the cosmos, from which my sacred connection to all living things grew. I, on the other hand, was the 'mothership' for your emergence into the world. I provided you with 'rocket fuel' and shelter for nine months, and envisioned your essence floating inside of me-like 'Sputnick,' forever.