I was nineteen and she was five. Five days old. Six pounds of human potential for whom I was now officially mommy. The baby fit snugly between my fingertips and elbow . I gazed down at her tiny face peeking through the pale pink blanket. Love and fear flooded over me. I knew little about life, less about babies.
How will I know what each cry means or if she’s hungry, or hurts, or is just exercising her lungs? What if I diaper her wrong and the safety pin opens , or she can’t breathe in her crib, or the bath water is too cool or the formula too hot.
We drove home from the hospital, and laid the baby on the bed, the same bed where she had been conceived. I cried at her fragility and my overwhelming feeling of responsibility. I didn't understand parenting yet, but vowed to be a perfect mother. I would read everything, learn everything, do everything.
Her father unwrapped the blanket, and her tiny arms and legs reached upward. He tried to reassure me that we would know what to do, that we weren’t the first parents who didn’t know anything about babies. Bravado, of course. He knew less about babies than I did.
I still wonder what I might have done differently with more maturity. Or perhaps it is the nature of things. For first borns, we yearn to be the perfect mother, whatever that means. With their siblings, a good enough mother is enough.
Happy Mother's Day.
How will I know what each cry means or if she’s hungry, or hurts, or is just exercising her lungs? What if I diaper her wrong and the safety pin opens , or she can’t breathe in her crib, or the bath water is too cool or the formula too hot.
We drove home from the hospital, and laid the baby on the bed, the same bed where she had been conceived. I cried at her fragility and my overwhelming feeling of responsibility. I didn't understand parenting yet, but vowed to be a perfect mother. I would read everything, learn everything, do everything.
Her father unwrapped the blanket, and her tiny arms and legs reached upward. He tried to reassure me that we would know what to do, that we weren’t the first parents who didn’t know anything about babies. Bravado, of course. He knew less about babies than I did.
I still wonder what I might have done differently with more maturity. Or perhaps it is the nature of things. For first borns, we yearn to be the perfect mother, whatever that means. With their siblings, a good enough mother is enough.
Happy Mother's Day.
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