Mother Love

To my daughter on her first birthday,

As you know, I grew up around animals. My father's professional life as a veterinarian meant that most of my life lessons were learned through the menagerie that surrounded my childhood. Deep lessons on life and death, the environment, nutrition, sexuality, and motherhood were conveyed through the actions of animals. And while your Poppy was not intentional about this, animals are how I learned a lot about human behavior.

The biggest lesson your Poppy expressed through the cattle that speckled our property was that of mother love. He explained that there is no stronger urge in nature than this. Mother love, he explained, is instinctual, powerful, beautiful and--if you're between a Mama Cow and her calf--scary.

Your Poppy explained this, your Nana proved this. A Mama Cow will stampede any creature that comes between her and her offspring. So would Nana. You've met her. You get what I'm talking about.

I grew up thinking that Mother Love was a natural, instinctual, profoundly aggressive occurrence, and so I would never have to worry about it. It would come to me. When I was ready for a child, all I needed to do was procure one. Instincts would take care of the rest. I was promised this by my father, by my mother, and by nature.

But, my dear child, the story of your own mother's love is hauntingly different.

One year ago today, on your predicted due date, I awoke at 4 am with sharp pains. I sat on the couch, in the dark, counting the contractions. And I have never been so calm. Your father and I had wanted you so badly, worked so hard to create you and were beyond thrilled when we heard of your existence.

I proudly have very few regrets in my life. But the day of your birth is one of them. I labored for 18 hours, I pushed for two and when you came out I was elated, if not just relieved. You came out without crying, your eyes were open and you were focusing on the surroundings. The nurses, the doctor, Nana and your father all found this unusual, if not astounding. No crying from a newborn? Eyes open and focused?

You were magnificent.

And I felt the room's energy shift. I felt the nurses watching feel a strangeness about you, a difference from the hundreds of other births that had taken place in that very room. I didn't understand it then, but looking back, I knew what I was feeling was unprepared. And unworthy.

They placed you on my belly, and here's my regret: I didn't hold you to me. Not because I didn't want to, though maybe I didn't. But because you were laying there, shivering, looking so intensely at me while I stroked your back and touched your cheek. But why didn't I pull you toward me? Why didn't I hold on to you and never let go?

The next morning in the hospital, you were brought to me--this, I hope, redeems me--and I held you so close and your father sat on the bed and for the first time we were alone together, as one family. And your father cried, and I cried and you looked at us. With intensity. And I felt it, momentarily, like a flash, that feeling everyone talked about. That love. Mother love.

But it was only a flash.

And what follows, you must understand, is all on me. You were everything you should have been. Perfect, healthy, beautiful. But in my quest to do all things as I had planned, in my quest for perfection, or at least being impressive, I pushed you to breastfeed when there was, apparently, no milk in me to drink. You struggled. And I pulled away from you. I didn't think about us as a unit, mother and daughter.

You were the enemy.

And down I sank, into the darkest period of my life. Tired, remorseful, angry and afraid. For months I struggled to understand how you fit into my life, how you fit into our marriage, how I saw myself, how I was to cope with the stress, how I was to love you just right. Mostly, I struggled to see you as anything but an obstacle to surmount.

For the past year, it seems as though my life has fallen apart and come back together a thousand times a minute. Swinging from emotions of true elation to overwhelming anxiety. And when asked by others--or when trying to explain to myself--what exactly has been so difficult about it all, it is like trying to explain a dream; so vivid in experience but crumbles in expression.

For the past year, I've been consumed with how I look--stretch marks, flab, under eye circles, blotchy skin. I've worried about the lack of time I have for things like reading, recycling, working, sleeping, gardening and exercise. I've mourned the loss of freedom and immaturity. I've cringed at the judgement of others. I've stressed about my career. I've moaned about my anxiety and cried about my fatigue. I've grieved the silence. I've longed for reprieve.

But I've embraced your innocence. I've laughed at your splendor. I've rearranged my priorities. I've accepted our new life. And I've loved more in this one year than in all previous years combined.

I see myself so clearly now that I'm a mother. Your mother. Because while I thought motherhood is all about being selfless, it's actually quite a lot about finding one's self. Before you, I was confident, assured, optimistic and unafraid. I was unscathed by a jaded world, unfettered by body image, unstoppable by any obstacle. But the first year of motherhood forced me to question everything about myself: my character, my body, my competence, my ambitions and my ability, sadly, to love. I fought back against my own self-doubt, my once fierce drive, the judgement of others and the judgement of myself.

I spent this first year so desperate to hang on to my old self, digging in my heels, fighting back the change that I failed to realize you weren't asking me to. You are so innocent, loving, silly and kind. You laugh when I laugh. You smile when I smile. And, sometimes, you cry when I cry. You weren't sent her to destroy me, change me, control me or own me. You were sent here to have me teach you, guide you, encourage you, and, above all, love you. How can I teach you, raise you and influence you if I am not grounded in a sense of my own beliefs, attributes, ambitions and flaws? You've waited patiently in your first year. You've emerged as a person like a time lapse video of a flower blooming. And I felt myself bloom at the same speed. Alongside you. We are growing up together. And now I know how to be honest with my emotions. To love without worry. To protect without thought. To find the joy in you allows me to see the joy in everything else.

How can I ever repay you?

My father wasn't wrong; mother love is the strongest urge in nature. My mother wasn't wrong; mother love makes you do crazy, irrational actions for the sake of your offspring. But they are misguided in thinking that mother love is just about the love a mother has for her children. If I'm truly able to love myself, love my life, love my husband and love you, then what, my dear child, am I incapable of?

And I no longer think Mother Love is just a natural urge. If it were, how could it be impressive? Breath. Heartbeats. Blinks. These are natural, uncontrollable and ordinary. But Mother Love, while forceful and all-consuming, is something your mother had to earn. Work at. Practice. And accept. And it is the biggest accomplishment of my life.

It's no longer a flash, my dear. It's an apocalyptic fire.



Happy birthday to us, sweet daughter.

Happy birthday.