The Love of a Mother

Never had I imagined I would want to be a mother, yet here I was holding a 6 lb bundle of flesh that looked like it was covered in cream cheese and raspberry jelly. “Congratulations, what a beautiful baby girl” swirled around the room; while my mind raced as I wondered when that instant love thing kicked in and the panic of responsibility subsided.



The brown dot in the bottom of the blue tube was not what I expected to see at 5:30 that June morning, I had been sure my late period was any other reason. “Oh my God, I’m pregnant” screamed through my head, a thought loud enough to be heard a town over I was sure. Larry had just left for work so I was stuck at home all day to dwell on this. We were still newlyweds and we had talked about having a baby, but it was not in our immediate plans. I sat on the deck and hours went by as the realization of how my life was about to change sank in.



Pregnancy was physically easy for me. No morning sickness, no astronomical weight gain; just day after day of a little life growing inside of me. The mental agony of pregnancy was not so easy though. Summer turned fall, fall to winter, and the time grew closer. I was scared to death. I was scared of the pain of delivery, scared of the responsibility of motherhood; some days I was paralyzed by fear. I would pray for a C-section to avoid the pain. I would pray to win the Publisher’s Clearing House so I could afford a nanny. Mostly I would just hope that I could survive the delivery, let alone a lifetime of being a good mother.



I had no role model as a mother growing up. My biological mother left me when I was six and the next time I saw her I was twelve. She remarried but her children from her first marriage were not good enough for her new life. She would call to say she was coming to see us and we would wait from dawn to dark for her to show up only to be repeatedly disappointed. Christmas and birthday presents would arrive by mail days or weeks late with no explanation. There were never any mother daughter talks, she was never there to guide the way as I become first a teenager, then a woman.



My stepmother was no more a mother than my biological mother was. She was cold with no concept of nurturing. She kept a clean house and put meals on the table, but never wiped tears or listened to the troubles of a confused growing girl. No praise for accomplishments ever came for her, but sharp words of disapproval were plenty.



As March came closer I was determined to do everything right. Lamaze was the rage, so off Larry and I went. The women there were so grounded, so certain they would do everything right, my panic increased ten-fold. There was no way I could be the mother these women would be, my inadequacies were magnified by these women only a weekly basis.



Friday, February 18, 1983 came and I was in labor. I was sure I would have a nervous breakdown before it was over. I had a long labor and five women came onto the OB unit after I had and they babies were born and I was still in labor. The pain of labor was not nearly as intense for me as the pain of feeling like I couldn’t even do the right thing by my child by delivering in a normal period of time. Finally she was born and the nurse handed me this 6 pound little girl. I had been successful in delivering her; she was healthy according to the doctor.



The nurse came to take her away from to clean her up and the second she took her, this instant love thing everyone talked about happened. I wanted her back. I wanted to hold her, I wanted to be the one to clean her up, and I wanted to be the one to take care of her. I wasn’t filled with fear anymore, just the wonder of the greatest accomplishment I had ever done. Twenty-seven years later, I am still filled with that wonder.