Birth

It was about 2 years ago that I was born into motherhood. Writhing on the hospital bed, I thought I might surely die, but instead it was if there were two births that day. Celia made me a mother. She is still making me a mother. I have to dig deep, but there’s the possibility of greatness. And Celia reminds me that greatness is not in me, but comes through me.

I don't often do bold things like shower or eat an entire meal at one sitting or go to the store by myself. But I have better things to do. I get to read books aloud and change diapers, kiss a small forehead and leave projects unfinished.

And, I get to worry. I've gotten a good taste of the primary preoccupation of motherhood – questioning, second-guessing… I bend myself into knots with the constant weighing of pros and cons, often with no discernible “right” answer. I’ve read books about how to be a good mother, and I’ve worried about what others will think. I spend more time with my daughter than authors and neighbors, than anyone, actually, and I often instinctively know what’s right for her. But sometimes I still wonder…

Wonder about her greatness, though, I don't. She was, indisputably, born filled with it.

JEB