Growing Up

When we were in Michigan last week, we had the privilege of accompanying an expectant friend to one of her ultrasound appointments. What a joy it was to see her unborn baby girl bouncing around, moving her lips and kicking her legs as she grows, forms and progresses. We only had one ultrasound of Bryony done, when she was 8 weeks along, so it was quite novel to see my friend's baby in utero.

It was also a little surreal to watch this while Bryony, at 13 months old, was on my lap. Even a year into parenthood, I am sometimes struck by the fact that I am someone's mother. The utter responsibility and humility of it all is still very overwhelming as I realize again and again that someone depends on me to meet her basic needs, to protect her and to serve as her first role model. Each and every thing I say or do could affect her physical and emotional growth and development. It is an awesome thing.

I look at my child each day, at the new things she has achieved, the latest things she has learned, and I am bowled over by how fast it has all gone by. While we were in Michigan, a friend was holding Bryony and I had the chance to look at her straight on, only to find to my great surprise that she is no longer a baby; her face is that of a little girl, full of expression and thoughtfulness, an old soul in the making. She started walking a few days before our trip, which was a welcome and heartwrenching event, as she moved from baby to toddler. She now shrugs her shoulders and holds her hands--palms up--in confusion as she babbles conversation at anyone who will listen. She has also taken to wagging her index finger at her parents, as if to chide us for some unknown misdeed. She laughs when we laugh, claps when she hears applause, and dances--oh, how she dances!--when she hears music.

My little girl is growing up.

But so is her mother. I have had a full life. I have studied overseas, travelled the nation and parts of the world, gone to college and graduate school, worked in remote wilderness areas amongst bears and cougars. I have lived in the big city and I have lived in small towns. I have friends from many parts of the world. I have done many of things my heart has desired. I have lived. However, becoming a parent, as cliched as it sounds, really did change everything. My time is no longer my own. My body is no longer my own--through pregnancy, birth and now breast-feeding, I share it with my child. Even my food is not my own as she explores new tastes and samples from my plate. Many times I have felt resentful about these things, resentful at the sacrifice that women make, that is so much more than most men must. But then a moment comes, like when she wakes up to nurse or reaches over to wrap my neck in her pudgy arms, and I let all of the resentment go. While I strive to maintain a strong sense of self, an identity other than just someone's mother, I am also quickly recognizing that she is the most important thing. Being my own person doesn't mean minimizing my role as mother. In fact, the choices that I make to enhance myself I hope will serve as lessons by which she will one day live, once she's grown up.

But I hope that doesn't happen too soon.