Last year on Mother’s Day,
I was five months pregnant
with my first child.
I got cards from my husband,
from my family, from friends,
all wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day.
I felt special, I felt honored.
I didn’t have a baby in my arms,
but already I was making sacrifices for my kid.
(No coffee! No wine! Where’d my feet go?!)
I also felt slightly like an imposter.
I was a mother, yes, sort of.
But I hadn’t changed a single diaper,
I hadn’t rocked a crying baby to sleep,
I hadn’t been projectile-vomited on.
I hadn’t made any mistakes yet.
Like letting him fall sideways
and smack his head on the ground
during his sixth-month photo shoot.
Or letting him eat the grocery list.
I hadn’t felt that overwhelming pride
a mother can feel for the smallest things.
Like when he rolled over for the first time
at five weeks old. (Advanced! He’s advanced!)
The first time he dropped something
to the floor and looked around to try to find it.
Or the first time he smiled at me,
and I marveled at the idea that I did that;
I made him so happy that he figured out how to smile.
So this year, I truly get to embrace the day.
I get to celebrate the way my son has enhanced my life.
The way he has completed my family.
The joy he brings us with every new day
and every new discovery,
whether it be something
as big as meeting his cousins
for the first time
or something as simple as the realization
that whoa, bananas are amazing.
Plus… I think I’ll be allowed to sleep in. Right?
Read more about Meghan’s adventures in new motherhood at her blog,
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