Before and After

Dear Gracie Kay,

     Tomorrow you will turn ten years old.  This astonishes me.  Earlier in the year, your grandfather (my dad) left a comment on this blog jokingly requesting that I not discuss the fact that I'll be turning 40 this year.  He said he was afraid that the realization may give him a heart attack.  At first I thought he was being over reactive but the fact is, your tenth birthday gives me a little of his perspective...... if the next three decades of your life go as fast as this first one did, the idea of your fortieth birthday may very well give me a heart attack too.
     Now, it's not that I'm purposefully turning your birthday around so that it's all about me (except I've heard that I happen to be good at doing such things), but I can't help but reflect on how a decade of motherhood has changed me.  It's been ten years now that I've been living my favorite quote; the exquisite terror of seeing my heart walking around in another being(that's you).  It's been ten years of unexpected moments of joy, moments of pride, and moments of inadequacy.  It's also been ten years of wonder, ten years of guilt, ten years of self-doubt, and ten years of reflection.  Ten years of watching you grow, and ten years of feeling myself grow and stretch into the uniform of motherhood- the most  unconventional uniform in the history of the world and one that's made of time's softest, most well-worn fabric.  
    I don't think I've ever told you how much I love the company of the women who wear this uniform.    You wouldn't understand it anyway.  You'd probably roll your tweeny eyes at me and give me a look that says "Whatever, mom".  So I don't think I'll try, but I will hope that maybe someday you'll find out for yourself.  I will say that this community of mothers is the most diverse, wise and powerful company I've ever had the honor to be in.  There are so many stories to tell here.  And you know, PG, how obsessed your mother is with storytelling.  It occurred to me recently that mothers give birth to generations, and the generations give birth to the stories.  So, you see honey?  Of course, of course I love mothers.  Mothers and storytelling go hand in hand.  For me, it's a love that is meant to be.
     That said, here, Gracie Kay, is the story of your birth:
     Ten years ago tonight, I was in the hospital waiting for you.  It felt like I was anchored to the hospital room by miles and miles of tubing and wires; never before had I experienced such a thing.  I had a tube coming out of my arm for an IV, and another needle in another arm that was pumping me full of pitocin.  There was a huge elastic strap around my enormous belly monitoring your heart, and yet another wire somewhere that was monitoring my heart.  I was too excited to sleep, and even though I knew that this was it- my last chance to get a full night's rest- I spent the entire night wide awake in that weirdly glowing room listening to our heartbeats beat out their rhythms on the monitor beside my bed.
     The next day, your birthday, was so strange.  It felt very, very long.  I remember feeling irritated at your dad for eating a hamburger in front of me when I hadn't been able to eat for the past 14 hours (Feel free to give him a hard time about that.  I figure I still got at least another ten years of mileage on that one).  I remember wanting to cry, people-pleaser that I am, when the doctor said "Push, Tacy. You really have to push." in a tone that suggested I hadn't been trying to do exactly just that for an entire two hours.  I remember being scared when the doctor told your dad to put away his camera and the room suddenly filled up with doctors and nurses.  You were in some kind of danger and to this day, I still don't know what that was about.  In the end, everything obviously worked out.  I'll spare you the (truly) gory details.  You're welcome.
      But Gracie, do you know that I was such a silly person, that I actually thought labor was going to be a little bit magical? In my defense, movies, books, and even childbirth classes do sort-of give that impression.  There's always the music, the built up excitement, the close up shot of the newborn, the mother's ecstatic reaction..... I went through my entire labor subconsciously looking for that kind of magic, but the truth is there was only work and frustration and exhaustion with a little bit of hopelessness mixed in. I wish now that I had realized that that was what motherhood was going to be.  Because when it was all over and I would retell the story of my labor to myself, (Isn't it weird that I was compelled to do that? It must have been my way of processing it.) I realized that the magic I was looking for was in all that work.  All those events came together and they didn't feel magical at all.  They felt gritty and too bright and weird and strange... but in the end they all added up to the line that divides the before and after.  Before, I wasn't a mom.  Then they put you in my arms, and suddenly, I was.  And in that, my sweet girl, and in all the beautiful things that came when you joined our universe, is magic enough to make my breath catch, to make my heart swell, and for tears to swim in my eyes.
     You are magic.
      You are.
      You.

Happy Tenth Birthday, Gracie.   I love you so much.  Thank you for making me a mom.