Am I jealous of the moms at the park playing with their children while I'm on my lunch hour?


Did I ever think I would be?


I'm not that kind of mother.


But I guess I am. A mess of contradictions and such sharp and soft transformations that sometimes, sometimes, I have no idea who I am.

Who she is.

This person I've become.

When people call me a good mother, I'm still baffled. Me? I say in sheer disbelief. You must be mistaken.

Don't you know how badly I wanted my life back when she came and stole my time and my energy? Time and energy that now seems that I solely sometimes hoard only for her.

Don't you know that I resisted being a mother to the point of mental illness? Illness that made me reborn into the reality that I marvel in now.

Surely not this woman you see before you whose parenting has given way to a beautiful dance with my daughter where she leads and I follow.

Where I feel fortunate to be someone's comfort and guide, rock, and refuge.

If I am a good mother it is because of her.

Because I was given a child that could test the limits of my sanity before she could speak. Who knew I had to be drawn under in order to emerge again in brilliant flames.

She birthed me.

A mother.

Her mother.

How is that possible?

How, indeed.