A child born to another woman

"A child born to another woman calls me mom. The depth of the tragedy and the magnitude of the privilege are not lost on me." - Jody Landers.

The Depth of the Tragedy

I didn't know how to cut a baby's nails.  I was afraid I would snip her finger tips off.  Sara knew exactly how to cut them and could even do it in the light of day (I had read that it was best to sneak into the nursery at night when the baby couldn't protest).  On the floor, in the visitation center, in the light of a late afternoon, Sara showed me how to start cutting at one side of the nail, and then peel off the rest of it.  When I did it later, I realized she was right: it was as easy as ripping a page of wet paper.  Allie squirmed but didn't cry.  After Sara finished, she told me, "You're going to have to learn to do this yourself now."  She was relinquishing the mundane, ordinary, everyday details of being a mother.  She was giving them to me, teaching me how, by example, to do the things she wouldn't be able to do in the future, but that she knew would need to be done.  

To know the minutiae of motherhood but to not be able to practice what you've learned is to have suffered a tremendous tragedy.  I sometimes wonder to myself and others, "What would Sara have been like if she hadn't been abused, beaten, and taken advantage of?"  These are things that happened to her - and are tragedies enough - but they have prevented her from mothering her children too.  I will never understand that pain.  

The Magnitude of the Privilege

Allie took her first independent steps today!  I was cheering from behind.  I like to think those cheers - my high-pitched, sing-songy, familiar peeps of approval - were motivation and energy and excitement to her.  Maybe she thought, "My mom thinks I can do this!"  Of course I did and I squealed as she lurched toward the iron-wrought gate with those first tentative, shaky steps.  We were in the vegetable garden.  I had just lured her to my side with a small, red strawberry - picked right off the vine!  She soon had a strawberry in each hand and was still grabbing at more.  To be able to share garden strawberries, it felt like I was literally introducing her to the delightfulness of life.  Soft light, private garden (it's a secret one too, given that the nest of rabbits haven't yet found it), giggles, laughter, and heart-bursting love.  She calls me Mommy.  It is a privilege that knows no end.