Dear woman in Target,
I heard you. I’ve heard it before, too—that I’m “spoiling that baby.” You said it with certainty, the way people do when they think they’re offering wisdom. You were convinced she’d never learn to be “independent” if I kept carrying her like that.
I smiled at you, kissed the top of her head, and continued down the aisle. Because you couldn’t possibly know.
If only you knew what I know.
If only you knew that for the first ten months of her life, she lay alone inside a sterile metal crib. No arms ever reached for her. No gentle voice ever whispered her name. The only comfort she had was the small act of sucking on her own fingers. That was her world — quiet, cold, and heartbreakingly lonely.
If only you knew what her face looked like the moment her orphanage caregiver placed her into my arms. It was a mix of fear and confusion, with just a fleeting flash of calm. No one had ever held her like that before. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t understand that being held was supposed to feel safe.
If only you knew that when she first came home, she would wake in her crib and never cry—because she had learned long ago that crying didn’t bring anyone. She didn’t expect love to answer.
If only you knew that anxiety was her normal. That she used to rock herself to sleep, bang her tiny head against the crib rails, and stare into the quiet because that was the only comfort she had. Her independence wasn’t strength—it was survival.
So when you see me holding her close, keeping her pressed to my heart, it’s not because I’m spoiling her. It’s because I’m teaching her something new—something that most babies learn long before she ever could. I’m teaching her that love stays. That comfort comes. That someone cares enough to show up every single time.
If only you knew that the little girl you see now is no longer the same baby who once lived in fear.
She now whimpers when she’s put down, not when she’s picked up.
She sings in the morning, her sweet little voice echoing through the house, because she knows that her chatter will bring someone to her side.
She rocks to sleep in her Mama’s or Papa’s arms instead of rocking herself.
If only you knew that the day she reached out for comfort, totally unprompted, we cried. All of us did. Because that small act meant she finally believed that love was real—that she didn’t have to be “independent” anymore.
So no, I’m not “spoiling” her. I’m helping her rewrite everything she ever learned about safety, trust, and love.
I’ll carry her a little while longer—or as long as she’ll let me. Because she’s learning what it feels like to be wanted. To belong. To be loved without condition.
If only you knew, dear woman in Target, that “spoiling that baby” is the most sacred thing I will ever do.
If only you knew.