Mother Love

Dear Mom,

It's my birthday this week, but of course you know that. You remember my birth day way better than I do. I imagine I was naked and slippery and crying. How did you feel? Were you happy I was born, your third child and first daughter?

How come on all my subsequent birthdays, you didn't take more of center stage but let the spotlight shine only on me? Year after year you made my favorite dinner, baked my favorite cake (always butter cake with chocolate frosting) and made sure I had presents. True, it was "my day" but I wouldn't be here to celebrate if it weren't for you, or for Dad.

For years I loved my birthday as the one day I didn't feel guilty wanting life to be all about me. Usually I lived my life feeling as though I had to justify my existence by excelling in whatever it was I was doing. Not on my birthday. On that day I got guilt-free attention for no other reason than I was alive. That was a lovely present in and of itself.

Now that I'm a mother, I can't believe you let me believe that my birthday is all about me. It's not. It commemorates the day I emerged into this world, it's true, but since I emerged from your body, it's also the birth of a relationship that started before I was born. When I was pregnant, I talked to my baby in the womb, sang to her, and told her I couldn't wait to meet her. When I finally did--on her birthday, after 25 hours of labor followed by a C-section without which we both would have died--I felt reborn. I was no longer an individual with voluntary relationships; I was a mother. Permanently. This little person and I were linked forever.

Now that I'm a mother, on my daughter's birthday I want to make her favorite dinner, bake her favorite cake, and give her presents that let her know how special she is, how precious in her own right, and to let her know that I feel that way because it's true, and because I'm her mother. I was there before she was conceived, wanting her, then grew her from a seed in my body until she emerged--naked, slippery and crying. Her birth brought me and her dad great joy, and it's that we celebrate on her birthday.

Was it like that for you, Mom? I tend to doubt it, knowing everything that came afterwards, and a bit about what came before. But maybe, just for a moment, when you first held me in your arms, you felt a link with me, a special connection that resonated in your heart and told you I was your daughter, forever.

I miss you, as I often do around my birthday--and yours. Now that I'm a mom, there's so much I want to talk about, to ask you about. I wish you could have met your granddaughter; she's a wonderful girl and you would really like her. I think I've grown up pretty well; wherever you are I think you would feel that now, despite what you said before.

If you were here you could come to my birthday party, have pizza and eat butter cake with chocolate frosting. Dad will be here but the divorce was long ago and I'd expect you both to be civilized. When I blew out the candles--forty six--you could help and maybe we'd catch each other's eye over the top of the cake and smile, knowing what it means to love both as a mother and as a daughter. I love you, Mom. Happy birthday to us.