I am a mother now, and my body bears the scars. I will never look the same, marked by stretch marks as I am. I will never feel the same, knowing what I know. My emotions have risen to the surface, tears swelling at the slightest provocation. I am raw, an exposed nerve, my heart worn on the outside now.
I am a mother now, and never won’t be. You are mine and I am yours. There has never been anything else so permanent in my life. Even when I am gone, I will be your mother. For better, or for worse, there is no turning back.
I am a mother now, but I am also a wife, a friend, a sister, a colleague, a daughter. Life didn’t stop the moment you arrived, but everything changed. I am a mother first, and everything else second, for now. But even as I step (stumble) into this new role, those others don’t go away. They make me better able to be your mother, and every day I realise that more and more. It takes a village, baby boy, and we have a good one.
I am a mother now, but I am still me. In fact, I feel more myself than I have in ages. Maybe I am more myself than I ever have been. I expected to feel different, but I feel the same. Pregnancy was such a purgatory for me, and coming out of the other side has given me such a lightness.
I am a mother now, but I don’t know what kind, yet. I am less anxious than I thought I would be, more relaxed. You make me that way, chilled out as you are. You are teaching me to be a mother; we are learning together. Let’s hope we do a good job, eh?
I am a mother now.