The Mother

She's me. The Elder Sister. She's the protective big sister with the long red hair. Part little girl, but holding "her" baby. Still fragile herself, but caring for one more fragile. Thinking of the day she'll hold one of her own. But grateful for the one she holds now. She's me.







First, there was Monday. The day that I understood there was life in me. When we were excited. When I couldn't keep my hand off my hardening tummy. When I knew I'd be calling a midwife the following week. When my every thought started with "Is it better for the baby if I..."

Then there was Saturday. The day we understood it was over. When I tried to convince myself for the first time that I'd never had a baby. When I wanted to believe nothing was lost. When, for self preservation, I made sure to forget what it felt like to carry someone else.

Then there was Monday. The day I understood once again that there had been life in me. When the reality of loss, grief, motherhood, and dire need all hit. When I cried so hard I split my lip. When I spent 20 minutes sitting on the foot of the bed in the dark with my arms cramped down around a doll, rocking us both. When I first felt the conflict of wanting to be with my baby and wanting to be with my precious husband.

Then there was Saturday. The day my favorite girlfriend called to offer support. When I spent about an hour smiling because I saw that she cared. The day she called back. When she tried to tell me I never had a baby. The day I lost a friend. When I first put my child above someone else.

Then there was Friday. The day we sat shell-shocked as we heard our only child referred to with "if you really were pregnant," "the products of conception," and "the embryo." When D said he was proud of me for not murdering anyone. The day I understood that my very womanhood is wrapped around this millimeter-sized child.

Then there's Sunday. The day I watched D holding a red-headed baby girl. When all I could think of was how to twist the picture to make it look like he was holding our daughter. The day I watched him read a story to 2 little boys. When I sat trying to make his face look 5 years older, wanting to convince myself I'll be seeing this again someday. The day I sat staring at my dreams and trying to act normal about it.

Flashback 3 years: I'm sitting D down in a rocking chair, explaining how to "keep your arm behind her neck," laying a day-old baby in his arms. I'm thinking as I lay her in his arms that I'll be laying his own child in his lap someday. And D doesn't know I like him.

And then there is Monday. Today is the day I see that the man whose arms I long to lay our babies in is still the daddy in our family. When I see that this man is the protective father. When I see that what others see doesn't change who we are. This is the day I see that this woman who longs to lay the babies in their daddy's arms is still the mother in our family. When I see that this woman is a good mother. When I see that what others see doesn't change who we are.

She's me. The Mother. She's the protective mother with the long red hair. Part little girl, but holding her baby. Still fragile herself, but caring for one more fragile. Longing for the day she'll hold another of her own. But grateful for the one she holds now. She's me.