Decade Baby

The girl who made me a mom turns 10 today. She is a decade old. An entire decade.

She could be the eighties, with a Caboodle full of memories.

I can’t really get my head around that. I honestly have no idea how it’s even possible that 10 years have ticked by, especially because I remember her birth so vividly

(of course, it’s hard to forget 26 hours of labor and popping every blood vessel in your eyes).

Her entry to this world was dramatic, and she screamed for months afterward, hard to satisfy.

Looking back, I can see her fussiness was a way to express her unease at being separated from the constant closeness of her mother, her safe place, her comfort.

Then, I only saw it as an indictment against my mothering abilities.

I flailed in the early years, anxiety swallowing all my joy.

I wanted so desperately to be good at this, this motherhood thing, and I couldn’t find any evidence that I was.

I guess when I stop to think about who we were in those early days, and who we are now, a decade-long relationship makes more sense.

The longer I mother, the more comfortable I become with mothering. I’m more likely to trust my choices and my inherent intuition about my children.

It wasn’t the most natural thing for me, wasn’t instinctual from the moment she was born, but 10 years in we’re actually doing okay.

Some days, pretty great.

I have no doubt that’s mostly because of her -- she is forgiving and patient, and has given me time to get better at this.

It’s hard to believe I’m the best mother for her sometimes, that someone else out there wouldn’t be better at it, with her.

But she doesn’t see that, and her belief in me has been enough to push me forward, to keep trying, to become the mom she needs.

We are a work in progress, and I’m eternally grateful she’s mine.

Happy 10th Birthday to the most beautiful girl in my world —

I love you so much my heart could burst.