An Ode to a Soul in Hiding

I learned I was pregnant November 6, 2006.

I remember this because it was the Monday after my mother’s birthday (pretty much my last day of happy intemperance) and I was “late” and I didn’t wanna go to work not knowing.

So 1 line is negative, 2 lines positive, right? When I saw the first line begin to take on that purple shade, I already knew. I think I must’ve chuckled to myself and thought something like, “Oh girl you done did it this time.” I knew this was it. No panic. No doubts. Just a deep sigh and a knowing acceptance.

Besides, I had no more excuses. I was a graduate. I had just landed an editorial assistant job at Gadgets. And I guess all the pain I had experienced earlier that year (particularly the one that had to do with my escaping a physically abusive relationship) made me realize that this was one responsibility I HAD to take –not completely disregarding the moral obligation I had though it wasn’t the motivating factor… I figured if this was one of those divine intervention type lessons I had to learn, I was in it to win it.

Now I wasn’t exactly as unfortunate as a lot of the other “single” mothers I know. I mean, I wasn’t exactly single; the baby did have a father, a supportive and loving one at that. And despite only having known him only a month after I had gotten pregnant, he was admittedly there for me during the entire 9-month endeavor and all throughout our daughter’s first year. Hell, I’ll give him that. I think I’d have about lost my mind if I had to rough it out alone (that’s why I admire those who were able to do just that because I understand the strength as well as the courage it must’ve taken).

But despite my hormonal imbalance, my changing body, and my natural tendency to just worry about everything, I was pretty much a very happy overweight pregnant woman. I laughed all the time. I worked hard. I went out to events happily sipping my iced tea and rocked those really tight maternity dresses proudly. I ate heartily and merrily and drank that God-forsaken Anmum milk religiously… with Chewy Chips Ahoy for taste.

I suppose that overall delight and evident joy rubbed off on my daughter somehow. Lucky for me it did because when it came time to separate with her father (she was a few months shy of two and we had finally admitted to ourselves that we simply could no longer “roll” together as Shel Silverstein so cleverly put it), it was as if she already knew and that she had to be there… for me. To take care of me. To pat me when I was crying. To wipe my tears. To tell me it was “ok, I love you.” To make me laugh (I mean, yeah babies don’t generally have these well-defined personalities but she was such a goofball who made faces and found silly things hilarious and sang her heart out and smiled and chuckled and didn’t mind watching Pineapple Express with me in the middle of the night and liked mashed potatoes on her head instead of her mouth.)

At that point I realized that I wasn’t raising a daughter.

She was raising a mother.

It was as if she knew she had to learn fast so she could take care of me better. As if being a baby was hindering her from doing so. I mean, she took her first steps after only 11months (it was on mother’s day when it happened) and was potty-trained just before she turned two. Now, she’s this smart-alecky precocious little BIG person who likes makeup and loves fairytales and the act of “love” kissing and sexy red panties (her favorite) and videogames and randomly asks people, “what’s your problem?” and can memorize song lyrics faster than a lot of people I know who are my age.

(And just this morning, she reminded me to buy her some milk.)

I suppose for all that I’m writing, I may not seem all that great of a mom and I still have a lot to learn when it comes to raising a kid. But somehow, I honestly believe that she knows how hard I’m trying. And she understands. And she doesn’t demand. She lets me be young. She lets me be a woman. But best of all, she let me go out and find love. And when she saw I had found it (the only other man I had allowed to “share” my sleep with), she looked him over for the first time as he slept (fully-clothed and propped uncomfortably upright), smiled, and began jumping on the bed until he woke up and noticed her.

Loved her.

She’s charming that way.

Quite like her mother.