Once upon a time I was a nurse, a writer and a wife. Then one day, I had a child. I became a mother. Added to the list of things I previously was, I became: a chauffeur, a cook, a dresser,a retriever of thrown socks, a finder of lost shoes, a doer of homework. I was a referee in toy wars, a soother of nervous school jitters. I calmed tantrums and bolstered fragile egos.
With each passing day my talents grew: I became a baker of cookies, a sewer of Halloween costumes extraordinaire. I could braid hair in the time most people wash their faces.
Where once my body had been my own to do with as I pleased, it now belonged to someone else. It became: a breast to nourish at, a shoulder to cry on, a lap to sit and cuddle upon. My lips became the kissers of boo-boos, my hips the transporters of small, squirmy bundles. My feet were now used to walk the floor at all hours of the night, my arms became a cradle. I grew eyes in the back of my head, and my hearing became supersonic.
My mind, which used to flourish with egocentric thoughts, now became filled with irrational ideations: What if she falls out of the crib? What if he chokes on his food? How will I know I'm a good parent?
My house, once so orderly and tidy became a disorderly jumble of toys and stuffed animals, dried peas and empty, strewn formula bottles; a carpet of clutter and chaos; a dwelling of disarray.
My heartwas filled to the brim, bursting with devotion and love. I was a Mother. I was an icon. I became a Mother. And in so doing, I became all that I was, all that I ever wished to be.
