Letter to My Daughter, the Mother to Be, on Mother’s Day

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh

Dear Lindsay, 

Yesterday (Saturday) you were officially 36 weeks or 9 months pregnant.  Today we will celebrate Mother’s Day- your unofficial “first” Mother’s Day as “Mommy to Be”.   And soon, very, very soon, you will become a mother for the first time.  So, I am writing this letter to you to tell you what it was like for me when I became a mother because of you.   

This past week you began “nesting”.  My friend Roselee told me that when she called to find out how you were doing.  I told her you were busy, busy, busy­­–– washing and folding all the baby’s clothes and packing and preparing your bag for the hospital.  “She’s nesting,” chuckled Roselee, “preparing for the baby.”  I looked it up online.  It’s an instinct all mothers go through to get ready for their soon-to-be-born baby.  They reorganize, clean, sort, cook, etc.  Coincidently, Aunt Claire came in from Arizona to visit and taught you how to make tomato sauce.  You put this sauce into containers to store in your freezer, so you’d have dinners already prepared while you are adjusting to everything else that comes with motherhood. 

I don’t remember nesting until the night before the morning you were born.  I had sat down in my kitchen and had a sudden urge to wash the floor.  It was after 11pm.  I had a sinking suspicion that I was getting that surge of energy I heard about that women get before they give birth.  That terrified me.  Then I realized I still had over two weeks, so I decided to go to bed, instead.  And then, my world changed forever.  I was trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, which is next to impossible when you’re 9 months pregnant and as I turned over I felt a strange trickle of liquid run down my leg.  I jumped up and the rest came gushing out of me as if a dam exploded.  My water broke. 

I woke your father up from a sound sleep.  It was pandemonium from then on.  We called Dr. Kliot, my ob-gyn, and he said I probably would not go into labor for a while.  He was wrong.  I started contractions 30 minutes afterwards that were five minutes apart.  We called Dr. Kliot back.  He told us to go to the hospital, but that I probably wouldn’t give birth so soon.  He was wrong about that too.

  

I remember your father asking me to get the suitcase I packed.  I looked at him and admitted meekly, I didn’t pack one yet.  Then he asked me if I could remember what goes in that suitcase and I couldn’t answer because he was making me so nervous.  Truth be told, I totally forgot what goes in the suitcase.  “Washcloths!  And lollypops!” he shouted, “That’s what I remember.”  I watched him run to the linen closet to get washcloths and then he asked me if I had lollypops.  Of course I had no lollypops. He started yelling at me because there were no lollypops.  I told him that I think I could give birth without the lollypops. 

We called Nanny and Poppy to come meet us at the hospital and to bring lollypops if they had them.  Meanwhile, your father told me to go stay in the bathroom because I was still leaking.  He went out and lined the passenger seat of our car- a 1980 Toyota Celica Black Package- with towels to protect it from the amniotic fluid.  When he finished, he took me and the bag with the washcloths out to the car. 

When we arrived at the hospital, the nurses in the maternity ward would not admit me because they said I was able to smile too easily.  Yes. They actually said that.  I tried not to smile, but they still wouldn’t let me in.  Instead, they instructed me to walk up and down the lobby of the hospital to make my labor progress a little faster.  So your father, Nanny and I walked back and forth for about three hours in the lobby of Brookdale Hospital while your Poppy read the Newspaper.  Nanny did bring the lollypops and says I was sucking them as I walked.  I don’t remember this at all, but she swears by it and your father corroborates her story. 

Finally, the nurses put me in an examination room.  I was about 8 centimeters dilated by then and Dr. Kliot had not arrived yet.  Every person who walked in the room examined me, I think even the janitor, but at that point I didn’t care.  One doctor told me that Dr. Kliot would probably not make it in time for the birth.  I was determined not to let that happen.

Everything progressed so quickly after that.  They wheeled me into a labor room and told me to push.  I told them I didn’t know how to push because I didn’t finish my Lamaze classes and we hadn’t gone over “pushing” yet.  This started an argument between me and your father, who insisted I could push anyway.  I told him he’s welcome to take my place and push if he thinks it’s so easy.  At last, Dr. Kliot, showed up, literally a half-hour before you were born.  He took one look at me (and I don’t mean my face) and he said, “Oh this is a small baby.  I can pull it out myself.”  And in the next second, he just reached inside and pulled you right out, all five pounds of you and a second later announced you were a girl.  I asked your father if he was upset because he had referred to you as his son while I was pregnant.  He looked at me through happy tears and said, “No, not at all.  She’s perfect.  Thank you.” 

You let out several screams, then stopped, and then screamed again and stopped.  I remember hearing you before I actually got a chance to see you.  It was more of a bellow than a cry– a beautiful, melodious bellow, which filled the room and tugged on my heart as if there was an invisible string attached, forever.

It was a while before I got to hold you.  They wanted to check you out first because you were a bit early and weighed only five pounds.  When they saw that you were fine, they put you in my arms.  In that moment, I understood love like never before– in its most purest and complete form. 

But also in that same moment I was overwhelmed with a feeling of absolute responsibility I had never felt before.  Actually, it was more a dichotomy of inexplicable joy mixed with a bit of terror and the clear knowledge that life would never be the same again.  That’s what it’s like when you suddenly enter motherhood– a conglomeration of sensations.

From the moment your child is born, it is as if you stepped out of one world into another.  You will have instinctive urges of trying to control the uncontrollable.  From the moment you put that infant down in the crib, then check five more times in all of five minutes to make sure she’s breathing- that’s what it means to be a mother. To be jubilant over a burp, a first step, a smile, a laugh and one milestone after another.  Along with that comes the uncertainty of caring for that fussy baby, that curious toddler, that unpredictable child, that insolent adolescent and that delightful young woman.  It’s the most demanding, most unpredictable, most difficult, most wonderful job I have had in my lifetime.   

Your father always says to me, “I thought I cut the umbilical cord, but I guess I didn’t.”  He literally did cut the umbilical cord that attached us.  But that invisible string that holds fast to my heart could never be severed.  It will connect us forever. 

Happy Mother’s Day to the one who made me a mother.

I love you.

Always,  

Mom