04/02/2026
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1B4VjiX8Bz/?mibextid=wwXIfr
Dear Me (on the day I found out about Logan’s cleft lip and palate, eight years ago today),
I know how you feel right now. I know you’re scared, sad, angry, guilty, clueless, and feeling so overwhelmed. I know that all you can think about is whether your baby will be bullied for something out of his control. You’re going to go online and look at so many pictures, forums, articles, and blog posts written by moms, doctors, or cleft adults. You’ll read about their experiences and their lives, and sometimes it will add to your fear and sometimes it will give you hope that, aside from numerous surgeries throughout the course of his childhood, nothing will be different for him. You’ll spend so many nights of your pregnancy awake in bed, long after everyone else is asleep, feeling him kick and wondering what he’ll look like but knowing at the same time that it doesn’t matter to you. And the second he’s placed in your arms you’ll know that to be true.
It’s going to be hard. Feedings will be tough and you’ll struggle when taking him out in public, always ready to go Mama Bear on anyone who says something offensive. But for you, that won’t happen. I know that isn’t the case for everyone, but no one will ever bat an eyelash when they see him for the first time. You’ll be completely exhausted with cracked, bleeding hands, trying to keep up with washing 6 piece bottles and pump parts in between constant feedings and pumping, freezing milk, and taking care of the basic needs of all 3 kids (and yourself). You’ll wonder why days aren’t 36 hours long and weekends aren’t 5 days, and you’ll constantly question if you’re doing right by your babies with every move you make.
You’ll have anxiety like you’ve never experienced in your life leading up to his numerous surgeries, wondering how you’ll ever hand him over and walk out of the pre op area without breaking down in front of everyone. And you will break down in front of everyone and it won’t matter, because all the other parents in that room are in the same boat. You’ll feel the literal weight of the world being lifted off your chest the second you see that surgeon come through the doors looking for you, and saying the best words you’ve ever heard- “he did great”. You’ll wonder if he’s in pain, and as you sq**rt milk in his screaming mouth for two weeks after each surgery you’ll wonder if you’re doing the right thing. If there’s a better way, or something going on that you can’t see, that’s making it so hard. And when he finally starts taking the bottle again you’ll wish you could throw away every syringe in your house and never see one again for the rest of your life.
And you’ll pass his bedroom late at night when he’s years 7.5 years old. You’ll pop your head in and notice, in the glow of his new string lights, the shiny scar above his lip. And you’ll stare at him, passed out in his bed with his stuffed animals, and you’ll wish you could’ve read this letter 8 years ago. You’ll wish you hadn’t let your fear and worries consume you, and know if you had the chance to to back you’d tell yourself that, although it seems overwhelming at this moment, all you can think about when you look at him now is how lucky you are... and how you can’t imagine him any other way. And you can’t imagine yourself without him.
And you’ll know your journey and worries and stresses are far from over, but you’ll also know he’s worth it all. So you’ll write that letter, a few years late, thinking that maybe it will find its way to someone else who could use to read it right now- and you’ll really hope it does.
Love, Me
