Sometimes I lie in bed in awe that the government gave me this perfect little girl to call my own. It feels crazy that a person can even be something to give. Then again, I think, they were simply formalizing a relationship that had already been solidified in our hearts. I lie in bed and feel lucky. Then I feel dread… Dread for the day she sees a pregnant belly and I explain that a baby is in there, and she asks me if she had been in my belly and I have to say no. Dread that her little face will fall. It will be the first time she knows in any way that we are a different kind of mother and daughter. It will be her first grappling with that. It will create her first conscious awareness that someone else was once that close to her, closer than me.
In the early days I struggled not to wish that Avalon was her. Now I struggle not to wish that she had been the baby inside me. It all happened on the same timeline… So it gets confusing. Oh how I loved that baby inside me, felt such a special bond with her. Oh how I love this baby I’m raising, feel the need to be her everything as she is mine. Wish I had been her everything, from even conception. Hate that I will be one of her mothers, instead of the only one. Feel so honored, so blessed, to be the one who gets her childhood memories in their entirety.
We are entirely happy. I love taking her places, watching her experience trampolines, swimming pools, parks, pumpkins, and even time outs. I love her falling asleep beside me, her breath steady, sometimes snores. I love preparing her lunch for school, and hearing the pitter patter of her little feet running through the house. I love kissing her still chubby cheeks, and her big, wiggly feet, just as I did when she was a baby.
I love that she loves the moon, and just noticed the stars for the first time. I love that I was there for that. I love that I can understand her language, as it emerges, so easily before anyone else can decipher it. I love that she is such a complete, interesting, solid little person. So herself, unexpectedly and perfectly her own person.
Mother of All Things 