A Mother’s Day Message
What does being a mom mean to me? A miracle. With the first pregnancy I miscarried. Multiple surgeries followed – without anesthesia, I might add (what was with those old-time gynecologists?). Years later at nearly 40, a pioneering technique gave me motherhood and Moriah. I’ll never forget those sweet midnight hours of nursing her in my old rocking chair, softly humming Kumbaya and staring out the window at the moonlit weeping willow. All was perfect.
Then began the years of daycare, work, sleeplessness, playfulness, yeses and no’s. They were rich with bumps, bubble baths, the loudest burps ever, and endless laughter.
With school, peers entered the scene. Bullies, too. Teachers were wonderful, but once in awhile, not so wonderful. Rocks and shells became endlessly fascinating. So did flowers, trees, and rainbows. In those years, motherhood meant reading Harry Potter together, then listening to Harry Potter on the tape deck maybe 37 times – all seven volumes.
At nine, Moriah’s back began to bend. Into a brace she fell, from shoulder to hip, 20 hours a day. The leg brace I’d worn for polio as a kid finally made sense. It was mere preparation to understand and help her through the adjustment.