It’s November 13th 2015. The air is cold, well cold on the heals of summer but warm for what’s to come. The sun is beautiful mid-day, I dart from the shade of trees that I savored a few weeks ago. Warm and wind is its own beauty. The moon tonight was stunning. A complete sphere crisply defined cradling a bright crescent in its belly. I urged Ever, “Baby look at the moon tonight it’s so beautiful”. “I know I’ve already seen it Mom.”
Three days ago my beautiful nephew was born. Two days ago I threw my baby her seventh birthday party. One day ago a friend died. Today 153 people were murdered in Paris. Still millions of Syrian and Iraqi children have no place to call home. And here I am on the couch daydreaming about the moon. Wishing I would have taken its picture. My best friend messages the new moon is in Scorpio, so I read about it.
On being a mother and having a mother.
This afternoon a coworker quizzed me on my pregnancy. How old were you? Too young. A series of questions about how my parent(s) reacted follow. I told the tale about a bouquet of flowers and confessing that I was the one having a puppy. Then I talked about how head over heals in love that Ever and my mom—her grandma rather are with each other. “I could completely not exist and they would be fine”. She seemed a little stung by that. “It’s okay that’s exactly how I was with my grandmother, I should expect no less”. She said, “Yeah it’s not all about you anymore is it?”
That buzzed in my ear as I walked the dogs tonight. It’s not all about you anymore. My instinct: it has never been all about me.
I dug a little and discredited my thesis. The adulation of my grandparents. Every man that I was impartial to but was so very concerned with how, when and where they loved me. Jobs that were only ever a paycheck in my eyes. Winks and smiles and camera angles. Sometimes you can’t help but live that you’re a beautiful girl. The choice to keep a baby, not for it—her but for me.
Yet, I still held: but not with my mother.
Or was it with my mother. My cognitive memory didn’t etch in the sensation of being born. The arms, the breast, the blankets and forehead kisses. I can’t taste the inside of my mother’s womb any longer. I don’t remember all of the times that I cried and she soothed. But I can feel them. They are swirling inside some where in a place that keeps me okay. Centered. Worthy. Loved.
Being someone’s baby.
Do you know how much a mother loves her child? If that’s not your lot I’m afraid that I can hardly paint the picture. It’s so saturating. Your baby fills every poor, simmers and boils, spills over the top in coos and kisses. It’s incomprehensible. It just IS.
That pure inexplicable love explains all of those unbelievable stories about how a mother kept giving and giving until it became enabling and enabling and still hold firm. It makes you understand how so many insufferable people are still here and well. How you can call your Mom after nine silent months and pick up where you left off. It’s why in the scariest moments of my life that I have called my mom first. It’s the urge for your Mommy to hold you when you’re sick and afraid. It’s intrinsic. It’s all simply because you were born.
Three days ago my beautiful nephew was born. Two days ago I threw my baby her seventh birthday party. One day ago a friend died.
That sobering wave of too close to home, why him, why now and why do we take each other’s presence for granted chilled my bones. And I cried. Most of my tears were for his mother.
Once nine years ago she so sweetly sought me out as I lay broken and battered in a sink hole of life. She sat with me. She was simply present one afternoon when things were upside down and I needed someone who felt like home. She allowed me to be okay for that one day, she was a sunny spot in a sea of sad.
You see it’s hard to shake a genuinely selfless good deed.
And I cried for her.
I cried because I know how fiercely a mother loves her baby. I know what it’s like to cry because your baby is sick and you can’t make them better. I know what it’s like to have your pulse skyrocket at the suspicion that something is amiss with your child. Thanks to everything that is I have absolutely no idea how utterly devastating that it is to lose a child. I imagine that it would be like cutting off half of your body and attempting to stager through life for the sake of being strong and failing miserably.
I read a news story the other day about two Romanian parents that committed suicide after their child died of cancer. That sounded absolutely logical. I refuse to know a world without my baby in it. It wouldn’t be living.
Three days ago my beautiful nephew was born. Two days ago I threw my baby her seventh birthday party. One day ago a friend died. Today 153 people were murdered in Paris.
153 of those people were someone’s baby.
Three days ago my beautiful nephew was born. Two days ago I threw my baby her seventh birthday party. One day ago a friend died. Today 153 people were murdered in Paris. Millions of Syrian and Iraqi children have no place to call home.
Those millions of children are our collective children. Let’s all refuse to know a world with out those babies in it. Yes, we may carry on our daily lives drowning out the horror of terror and abandon with the pleasantries of a Western existence. But deep down inside of our collective consciousness we know. In that place that can’t quite recount life when you were entirely reliant on someone else is very much alive. That place that keeps you centered. Worthy. Loved. That place doesn’t shake a genuinely selfless good deed. That place doesn’t forget any of its babies that were taken too soon.
And here I am on the couch daydreaming about the moon. Wishing I would have taken its picture. Searching for renewal.