You will not understand how much I love you until you have your own children. And even then, you might not understand, because I am a mother. There is a specific magical feeling that came over me because you grew inside me. I don’t think fathers can feel that. You grew from my tissue, you were fed by my blood. When you were born, it was like my heart burst out of my chest and one year later it is now a walking, babbling, separate person. When you stumble, my heart stumbles. When you laugh, my heart rejoices. When you wave at somebody, I think “Why is he waving at that person? I didn’t tell him to.” When you do anything original without my request, I am amazed. How did I create this wondrous being?
I see children in the world and I see their joy and pain. I fear for the days when I cannot watch over you. I wonder how my parents ever sent me out into the world. I wonder how they ever drew a breath between the time I left the house and the time I returned. When a part of your body is outside of you and thinking, feeling, and learning, how can you not have that missing feeling?
It’s a life of constant worry and excruciating happiness, this being your mother.