To Madam, on her first birthday

(I am away from home and my computer, so alas, I will be very late for Sunday Scribblings! But I wanted to post something for Madam's first birthday tomorrow. Hope you are all doing well--I miss you!)

Dearest Madam,

I hesitated to write this, because so many have done it and so well. Who am I to add my voice to that song, and so late? Could I give form to all of the experiences and wonder and love and pain that have occurred this year, your first?

But our story begins before this, doesn't it? Our birth (for it was our birth, both yours and mine) was merely a physical meeting-we'd spent hours together before that, discovering each other's quirks and dislikes. You found out about my love of chocolate ice cream and French fries (though thankfully for you, not together). I discovered your love for taking a long afternoon walk in the sunshine. I would balance my book precariously on my rounded belly; you would swim by and playfully kick it off. Not wanting to share my attention even then.

I am sorry, dearest, for your bumpy arrival into this world. I had a fever, was exhausted, ill. I passed it on to you, landing you in the NICU for eleven days of blankness--we'd had you for only a second, and then you were whisked away to another hospital. Dazed, I pumped rhythmically every three hours, obsessed with the magic healing powers of breastmilk.

In hindsight, I needed to feel I was doing something.

I grew ill, again, hospital, again. I babbled incoherently about going to Las Vegas--we'd driven through there on our westward trek to California. I tried to pump while thinking beatific thoughts about you--then gave up and watched MTV and read books.

That categorizes a lot of my experience of motherhood.

You've given a shape to my life, sweet--me, who used to disdain routine!

You wake in the morning, teetering on your hands and knees, an uncertain smile grows wide as you catch me pretending to sleep. You're awake, Mommy! You're awake, Daddy! Impish with triumph, you sidle closer to my side, balance yourself and stand, already babbling away. We start our ritual of coffee--you crawling around saying hello to your toys while I scribble my morning pages. On occasion, you stop and crawl over, staring quizzically at me, pulling at my pen and tapping my paper. Your matter of fact acceptance of having a mother who writes makes me feel real, like, well, a mother who writes.

This, too, is our pattern--I flail about wildly, looking for rescue, and you stare serenely at me, eyes full of innocent confidence It's my job to figure it out. I'm the Mommy--so I draw from some secret well of adulthood and manage. All for you.

It hasn't all been easy--in fact, most of it hasn't. Hours of forced silent meditation in the night, nursing and rocking and walking you to sleep--unable to flee, to seek distraction--forced to look deep into myself and not liking what I see. Having stories, words, phrases come and fade for want of a pen and paper. Boredom turning to exhaustion turning to resentment turning to fear turning back to boredom.

But I've learned to hold onto the words as tenaciously as you hold on to your rings; learned to write in my head even as I change diapers and sing lullabies and play games and make lunches. You've called on my desires even as you call my milk to you, my body wanting only to nourish and please you. My mind wanting only to be worthy of you.

To say that I love you feels trite, inadequate--so I fumble along, with only images to guide me--your lightning smile, dimples. Your furrowed brows as you puzzle something out. Your attempts to crawl, to stand, to walk, again and again until you can do it. Our walks ogether in the sun--first, one state, then the other city, as you jabber happily to the trees and the doggies and to me. The shadows of the trees fall over your face, like clouds racing in front of the moon. Your body curled against mine like a question mark--but you, yourself, as the answer.

I want to be enough for you. I want you to be proud of me. Those simple desires have pulled me through this turbulent first year.

TEG says, "Only you would try to do something new and scary during this hardest year of your life." But it couldn't have been any other way. Having you had woken me up, like the old fairy tale of Talia and her twins. You have connected me to the largenesss and wildness and fragility and beauty of this world.

Thank you for the privilege of watching you sleep, watching you play, watching you grow. My gratitude never ceases and never will.

So that is why I can write this, in spite of so many other beautiful and creative voices. Because you look for me, for my voice, in all of the world. And I do the same for you. And those facts give me the courage to add my own small voice to the rest of the song. I can write because I am your mommy. Te adoro. Happy birthday.

Your mother.