Today’s post is the last one in February’s Love Letters miniseries. I’ve had a lot of fun featuring posts about love from some fabulous guest bloggers—and I’m hoping to do more series like this one in the future. For now, I’m going to turn it over to Jordan…

Hey friends! I’m Jordan, visiting from A Bushel and a Peck, where I attempt to spin the depressing tales of my life into light and fluffy fun. Since graciously being asked to write a guest post, I’ve been combing my brain, trying to come up with anything and anyone I love. But the whole time, I’ve just been hearing, “What is love (love)? Baby, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. No more…” on repeat and all my effort has been focused on not bobbing my head from side to side.

I worked through it, though, and have arrived at a very fitting, albeit obvious, love story.

I don’t think you can fully appreciate your parents, or understand a parent’s love, until you are you one. As I continue to endure the poop-stained laundry, the projectile spit-up, the screaming car rides, that little b* karma comes to mind. I’ve listened to my parents’ stories about baby Jordan my whole life. Apparently, it took me a while to learn how to not cry and be kind and use helping hands instead of hitting hands. They tell these stories with a chuckle, which gives me hope that someday I’ll reach the light at the end of this tantrum-ridden tunnel. I’m going to laugh about this eventually, right?

To me, the first months of motherhood are like a West Texas winter. The nights are really long, the scenery gray and dreary, and it seems like it might never end. My hair is often wild and windblown, I never shave my legs and leaving the house sucks. It’s not all bad, though. The snow brings moments of extreme beauty, the cold induces sweet fireside snuggles and sunny 65 degree afternoons pop in occasionally to provide a little respite, hope even. But most days, I just want to curl up in my bed and throw the covers over my head to drown out the tears. I mean wind. And some days, I do.

But then spring comes.

Bambi in spring

All the flowers and the colors and the baby animals and the cuteness. Okay, so West Texas springs aren’t quite like that, but they’re a lot better than winter. The beauty of spring wouldn’t be nearly as stunning if it weren’t preceded by winter.

Life has taught me that the best kind of love emerges from struggle, motherhood specifically, as if we have to go through a pledging period before we can be a part of this mommy sorority. (Kry Mama Kry? Krappa Krappa Gamma?) But once we survive, we find we’ve formed an incredibly deep bond with those whom we labored. Literally. We struggle and suffer and resent those red-faced humans for putting us through the hell of sleep deprivation and cry marathons, but somehow (I mean, it really is a mystery) we come out on the other side loving those little fireballs more because of it. And they did nothing to earn it. In fact, they did the opposite. They earnestly tried to prevent it from happening. Yet, remarkably, we develop this deep, overwhelming attachment. How does God know that the things that make us work hard and labor, those really difficult things, those are the things that breed Love? Capital L. The real deal.

My youngest is almost 8-months-old and some days are still really hard. In fact, I am about one midnight cry away from getting in my car and just driving away. Fast. Good luck hubs. Be back tomorrow… two days at most. But yet, I am madly, truly, insanely in love with her. This mom business is hard, but the hardest things are the most rewarding.

I am now arriving at two-years-old with my oldest and realizing that the bliss of a temperate spring doesn’t last very long. Hello sweltering summer. You are baking my bits.

Written by Jennifer Garry
Jen is a freelance writer and girl mom from New York. When she's not knee-deep in glittery crafts and girl talk, you can probably find her sprawled across her couch in the middle of a Netflix marathon with dark chocolate smeared on her face. The struggle is real.