You were wet and new and helpless. The hospital staff laid you on my chest and I held you gingerly. You screamed, still blue from birth. I was unprepared for your perfection or the gooeyness of birth. I stared in awe at the fuzzy face of new life and how I had very little to do with your existence. I greeted you. I said hello. I introduced myself. "I'm your Mommy."
You are newly born. I have you sleep in the nursery of the hospital. In the early hours of the morning, I slip on my robe and walk to the nursery. I smile at you in the clear plastic bed. I show the nurse my identity bracelet so she can verify that you are mine. I wait for her to pick you up. I see you right in front of me. And then she goes to another bed and gives me that baby. I realize that I have been adoring the wrong child. I am sad because I thought I knew you. I feel ashamed. I take you back to the room, rolling the baby cart-bed and never stop staring at you. I'm still your mom.
I stood afar as people came to see you. They marveled at you, newborn you. They kissed the top of your head and slipped their pointer finger under your entire hands, coiled like a seashell. I was imbalanced from the mayhem of postpartum hormones, entertaining guilt that I didn't adore you more. But I introduced you as my daughter.
You were a mere 2 weeks old. I wondered if I loved you. Just because two people are thrust into each other's lives and labeled "family" doesn't mean they love each other.
We were on a walk. A dog began to bark and tore across the yard. It was gnashing its teeth. It was angry. But I was strong. I decided that I would throw my body over the stroller and shield you from the dog. I even decided that I would give the dog my left leg to chew on so that I could protect you as long as possible. The dog met the end of the chain and jerked backwards, forgetting its boundaries. The dog faced me, a mere few feet away, thrashing. My heart beat wildly. I realized that I did love you. I AM your mom.
You were two years old and screaming. Screaming everywhere. Everywhere was screaming. There was only sleeping and screaming. I kissed your wet curls at night and fell to sleep.
I went back to work when you were two. The reasons were many. Your father was in graduate school. We were tired. But I wanted to go to work. I didn't understand you. I dropped you off at daycare. You liked it there. The teachers told me you tucked in all the other children at naptime. This made my heart swell. There was one time where a child irritated you and you bit him. I had to come pick you up and sign papers. You have always been expressive. I accepted you, the whole package. The biting you and the tuck-in-bed you. You are mine and I love you.
You picked out your outfit for the first day of kindergarten weeks in advance. A pink skirt with a tiger print on it and a pink shirt with an image of ice cream. And a pink backpack. Everything was pink. You walked to school as if you had been going there for years. I held your baby sister in my arms as I watched you confidently join the other students.
I was sitting in the church pew, waiting for the Christmas program to begin. It's your turn to deliver your lines and I am stunned. I just didn't know you had a theatrical bent. You were marvelous. People are laughing at your jokes and mannerisms. I looked at your father and he is proud because he taught you how to say your lines with meaning. After the program people say such nice things about you and I shrug my shoulders in awe, proud to be your mother.
We walk hand in hand. You and your best friend needed to work out some differences. You're only five years old. We talk about apologies. We talk about telling the truth. You're nervous and I'm nervous as well. But we did it. We said the things we needed to say. And we were forgiven. And I'm still your mother.
Years of reports cards are piling in the office. They all say the say thing. That you are smart and kind and inclusive and witty and artistic. Every year. The same words.
You are eleven years old and you want to run for office in your class. You prepare a speech. You memorize your lines. Your father helps you. And then you come home. You were not selected for the seat you wanted. But you are brave and you tried. And I am so proud. I hug you, glad to be your mom.
Someone is sick. It's your teacher. She has been sick with a sore throat for a long time. I didn't know that she was sick until the email came telling me that you had sewn a tiny purse out of scraps of fabric and filled it with cough drops. The teacher was thankful. I gave you the sewing machine and a few scant lessons but that was all. You were the one who flew with it. I love being your mom.
You are hot with a fever. You have the flu. We are in the car coming home from the doctor. I have bought medicine to reduce your fever and lots of juice. I picked up a movie for you and try to crack jokes with you. And then you are sleeping in the car.
An overwhelming feeling rises in me. In my head I say this: "I am the mom." It's a simple statement which took me years to embrace, but I am doing it. I am in my yoga pants and a hoodie which I have worn too-many days in a row. I cancelled my hair appointment because I could see how sick you were. The car smells like french fries. I want a shower so badly. But even in the midst of all the situations of the day, I feel deeply happy. I own it all. The bad hair, the greasy fries, the sound of you sleeping and the doctor office co-pay. I own it all.
Because it means I have you.
You didn't make me.
But you made me "Mom."
I am the Mom.
