Birth of the Mother-Self

            I was born the same day my daughter was.  My self-as-mother didn’t exist before Amy entered the world, but “mother” suddenly became the most important part of who I am.  In 22 years I’ve learned a few things, lost a few things, gained a few things, and made a few mistakes.  I have been changed forever by the experience.

            She came into the world screaming at the top of her little lungs, fists clenched in indignation and blue eyes wide open.  She had a full head of dark hair, round pinch-able cheeks, and skinny little arms and legs.  The nursery was down the hall, around the corner, and down another hall—a long way from my hospital room.  I could hear her wake up, hungry and not afraid to let the world know.  When the nurses brought her to me, she had a little pink bow stuck in her hair and a killer appetite.  I learned what it feels like to have my heart moving around outside my body, in the palm of this tiny girl.

            Amy and Alisha (who lived across the street) were inseparable.  They thought they looked exactly alike, and used to tease me about which one would live at my house and which one would go across the street.  They wanted to be together all the time.  I lost my spot as Amy’s best friend when she was still in preschool.

            I once said to Amy’s dad, “Amy and I get along so well.  We won’t have any trouble getting through her adolescence.”  And then adolescence hit, like a brick wall falling on our heads.  The first time she screamed, “I hate you,” as she slammed the bedroom door, I cried.  I wanted my sweet little girl back, not this monster teenager.  Before a girl can become herself, she needs to become not-mom.  She needs to rebel, to test boundaries, to try on other personas and ethics to see what works for her.  Luckily, adolescence doesn’t last forever, and I gained a good friend and respected hero in the woman she is becoming.

            If I had the chance to do it over, I would be more nosy, ask more questions, set stricter rules, and follow her around more.  I would laugh more, play more, and talk more.  I would be kinder, more patient, less punitive, and more spiritual.  In spite of my mistakes, Amy has become a woman I am proud to know.  My mother-self is only 22 years old, and we’ve both come a long way.