Do you know your child?

Do you know your own child?

I think I do. On most days that is. She’s beautiful, witty, athletic, outgoing and super tenacious. She’s exacting, punctual, and hates breakfast. She thinks there should be a moratorium on euthanizing animals. She quotes Kimora Lee Simmons and says thank you to beggars and bums when they hold the door for her. But she’s not popular. In fact, she avoids lunch time by hanging out in the computer lab, so sitting alone won’t be so obvious. She pretends the jokes made at her expense don’t sting, although she can’t help but listen to the discussions about birthday parties she wasn’t invited to. It’s happened for the last two years so continually that at times I have grown dull to her pain, because on most days much like most pre teens, she hides her hurt well.
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Last night was different, and sadly, I almost missed the window to comfort her. My day was less than stellar, and I was hoping to slink into the house, and be bare minimum mom for the night. Say hello, hug, cook, small talk, bed for her, some peace and rest for me. While I washed dishes, I saw that glance shifting in the silence, waiting for me to offer her space. I turned away, even as she asked me to come sit and talk to her. I wanted it, whatever it was to wait another day.

She sensed my closed door and relented, picked up a book and withdrew. The gleam in her eye gone, and there she was, just my little girl who needed me more than I needed to be alone.
I wrapped her tall as me body in my arms and the tears started immediately, sobs caving her shoulders so much that I had to clench my own jaws to avoid crying.

“Why don’t they like me mama?” Everyone has at least one friend except me”

I rattle off a few names of girls that she occasionally mentions.

“They only like me sometimes. “

“I think you are perfect, and strong, and wonderful.” I say, knowing it’s not enough.

“They act like I don’t have feelings mom”

I let her share all her pain with more detail about her aloneness than I want to know. This is my first born and joy and all I can do is hold her, wondering if the parents of the children who cause this hurt..Know who their child is.

Because in a flash, I almost lost sight of mine.

exhausted and comatose..that's where you'll find me

I spend most of my days somewhere being exhausted and comatose. Waking up tired is chic and my appreciation for all things take out has returned. My inner Martha Stewart folds and creases endless pages with great sales ideas and all the stupendous projects I am going to tackle..tomorrow. I have notebooks to organize my notepads and lying in bed nightly solve the problems of small countries . I condemn the laundry with a stern look and refuse to be lured by it’s continual growth, setting an alarm on my blackberry to check out full service wash dry fold places.
Daily I cart my gym bag to work, remembering how great I felt two months ago when I slipped on my Nikes. More energy, more stamina, and no droopy butt. However, lunch is infinitely more enticing and what’s 20 stinkin minutes on the bike going to do anyway? My body continues to shape shift in preparation for baby landing aka birth. Potato sacks and burlap soon will be my only viable options, as the breasts continue to make their case for soverign nation status. I spend whole hours staring at black and white grainy ultrasounds, fascinated by my baby boys face already. I cry for everything and nothing, laugh and talk to my stomach knowing I am heard.I dig in my daughter's ears in public, lick my finger to get dirt off her face, and just like that, I am my mother.
Pregnancy brain loss surfaces when I return to the parking garage clueless about my car's location. Sexy underwear left with my waistline and in it's place a worn Sox jersey and my used to be too big sweats. I'm officially hot.I scroll through my 12 year old daughter’s phone contacts and come across my own name saved under mom. And just like that, I am cured for the moment, from the over everything and underliving blues. At least until tomorrow.