Mother’s Day

It is Mother’s Day. I have such an odd relationship with this day. To me it is so not about getting to be the queen for the day. It isn’t about sleeping in. Or flowers. Or cards. Or presents.

Although I am certainly not complaining about sleeping in until 8:30 or that I woke with a perfect coffee waiting on my bedside table, a bouquet of flowers on the dining room table, and a gift certificate to my favorite spa. Or the luxurious uninterrupted bath I took this afternoon. Not complaining at all.

But it isn’t what I think about on Mother’s Day.

What I think about on Mother’s Day is that my child is a marvel. This day is one of those days that gives me some of the distance to properly see her. All day I kept finding myself just floored by who she is, how very far she’s come, and, frankly, that she is here at all. I’d look at her–watching her from across them room as she stands holding on to the television table, playfully exploring the edges of her balance. A year ago she couldn’t stand herself up. Two years ago I was pretty sure she never would. When we went out for some ice cream, I wound up just looking lovingly in her eyes, shocked by how well she will keep my eye contact now…and by her sweet giggles when my kisses tickled her neck. It took a year to hear the sound of her laugh–not because she wasn’t laughing, but because she couldn’t produce the sound of laughter. Now her belly laughs are audible from the next room.

Mother’s Day 2010 I was very early in my first trimester. We told my mom about her expected grandchild on Mother’s Day. I had all the confidence of the totally naive expectant mother I was–in my mind there was no doubt that my pregnancy would go exactly as planned. I had no doubt that being a mother would be challenging–but in all of the typically expected ways.

It never crossed my mind that I would have a child who was sick or disabled.

Why would it?

One year later, on Mother’s Day 2011, Esmé was in the Pediatric ICU. She was about to have major abdominal surgery to place a g-tube and perform a Nissen-fundoplication. The week prior she had turned blue in my arms and then had cardiac and respiratory arrest in a local ER. By all accounts it was a miracle she survived. And the experience solidified what we really already knew–that our daughter was, indeed sick, that she probably had a genetic disorder, that she was, in all likelihood, going to be disabled for her entire life.

On Mother’s Day, I was able to hold her for the first time since that day in the ER. I was able to sit with my baby in my arms and rock her. I was terrified to do so, asking the nurse several times if she was certain it was ok. Esmé had been very uncomfortable for days. She was able to rest some, tucked in my arms, although mostly she quietly moaned in pain. But one point that day she opened her eyes, looked at me, and smiled.

Since that day, the only thing I have wanted to do to celebrate Mother’s Day is to make my daughter smile…to see the joy in her–a joy I know fights through the darkest places.

Today, though, her joy didn’t have to fight through. It was right there at the surface…as she lay on the rug in the breezy den, I made big playful steps toward her, wiggling my fingers high over my head, saying “I’m going to get you, get you, get you.” She laughed and laughed–snorting a little bit–in anticipation.

When I got her…tickling her beautiful tiny body, her strong arms pushing me away happily…her smile grew until it pinched her eyes all the way shut.

And it was good.