What a Mother Becomes

I remember the first day I brought her home from the hospital. I was tired and the days since delivery had been long and strange. I was ready to be home, in a familiar place, though I’d soon learn that there was nothing familiar about my new life as a mother.

I looked around my little living room and realized I didn’t know where I was supposed to put the baby. Should I hold her while I sat, or place her in the bassinette? The bedroom we had spent weeks preparing seemed so isolated and far away. I didn’t want to leave her in there alone.

I sat on the couch, held her close to my chest and felt awkward and uneasy. I realized I had no idea what I was doing and felt like a child, suddenly overwhelmed with the obligations of caring for a child of my own.

I leaned back into the cushions with my baby in my arms and put my nose in her hair. It was soft and dark, and she had tons of it. I listened to her little baby noises as she lay curled up like a tiny kitten on my chest. She had that sweet baby smell of baby powder and lotion. She was both horrifying and intoxicating to me.

With one arm securely on her back, I closed my eyes and felt comforted by the gentle rising and falling that let me know she was breathing. We fell asleep that way for the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

At first, she needed me for everything. I was her second body, living outside her skin, that did all the things her primary body needed, but couldn’t do for itself. I fed her when she was hungry. I changed her when she was wet. I bathed her when she got dirty. I laid her down so she could sleep. I picked her up so she could stand. I bounced her on my knee when she was restless. I put colorful things in front of her to look at when she was bored. I taught her the words to communicate her hunger, her fear and her frustration.

When she learned to walk and talk for herself, I was her safety net. I childproofed the home to keep her safe. I followed her every step and redirected her from hazards. I cut up her food to make it easier to swallow. I put barriers all around to keep her from harm. I told her, “No!” and set a thousand boundaries to keep her from falling, drowning, choking and electrocuting herself. I scooped her up, kissed her and held her while she cried from dozens of bumps and scrapes along the way. I drove her to the emergency room in the middle of the night when her fever reached 103 degrees.

When she learned to observe the world, I became her playmate. I used to play guitar and sing to her every night before bed. She had no comprehension that I wasn’t that great at it. She looked at me like I invented music and always wanted to sing just one more song. She wanted to be wherever I was. If we watched TV, she wanted to sit in my lap. If I was going to the grocery store, she wanted to ride with me. She would beg me to play basketball, ride bikes or color with sidewalk chalk. As far as she knew, I was her best friend in the world.

When she learned to think, I became her conscience. I taught her not to lie. I made her scrub the walls when she colored on them. I took away her toys when she was being selfish with other children. I taught her about God, and doing right, and trusting His plan for her life. When she did wrong and hard lessons had to be learned, I shaped her thinking and directed her down the right path.

One day, she came home with a toy I’d never seen before. A tiny Lego man. I asked where it had come from and instantly knew from the look on her face she had stolen it. We went to preschool the next morning and I made her walk up to the teacher and return the Lego man. Walking through the door, her whole body convulsed with sobs and she looked at me with red, wet eyes and pleaded with me to let her just put it back in the toy box. My heart broke into a million pieces, but I held my nerve and made her confess. When I returned to my car, alone, I wept violently for the embarrassment she felt.

When she learned to feel, I became her counselor. I coached her through broken friendships and taught her to think of others more highly than herself. When she tried to take the easy way out, I made her face her fears and do what was right.

The day I found out her grades had started slipping, I sat her down and confronted her. She tried to assure me everything was under control, but I saw her façade crumble as her voice cracked and her lip trembled. I put my arm around her and she broke down, telling me she had gotten overwhelmed with the pressure of school. She had tried to catch up, but the harder she worked to do it on her own, the more she found things slipping out of control. I made her a cup of tea and I made her email each of her teachers – on her own – to ask for help. 

When she learned to reason, I became wrong for the first time. She liked a boy, you see. A different kind of boy. One that frightened me a little. He had special medical needs, you might say. He had some odd behaviors and took a lot of medication. I feared he might have an episode one day and hurt my daughter. It was safer for her to be friendly from a distance – and I told her so.

I watched a lifetime of admiration evaporate as the expression on her face turned to horrified disappointment. She told me I was being unfair. She said I was judging him for something that wasn’t his fault. She told me I was being unkind and unloving. She was right.

I began to lose her, little by little. She still listened to my words, but there was doubt in her eyes. Her smile became hollow when I preached too long, scrambling and clawing for credibility and authority. I found myself acting more childish and showing my hypocrisy more often. And I saw her being the bigger person, choosing love and kindness when I refused to show either.

When she became a good person…a strong person…a whole person...I became useless. I didn't know how to be her parent anymore. I didn't know how to lead and guide her in truth and wisdom. No threat or plea could bring back that little girl with the big blue eyes who wanted nothing more than to sit in my lap or go outside and play with me.

What I wouldn’t give to have those moments back. To play every game with her. To impart every ounce of wisdom into her little mind. But she’s already absorbed all she can from me. What she will become now is up to her own discretion, judgment and experience. I now sit on the sidelines and watch and hope and pray.

One thing is certain. She’s a better person that I can ever hope to be. She’ll grow in greater wisdom than I’ve ever achieved. I couldn’t be prouder of who she’s become.

But as I look back on the years, at all the things I had to become to be her mother, I weep with longing for that little, tiny, helpless baby I held in my arms all those years ago.