Three years ago today, I was lying in a hospital bed, waiting, waiting, waiting.
And when you finally did emerge, the next evening(!!!) you had almost-black hair, long thin legs, and dark eyes.
I’m going to tell you a secret. My whole life, whenever I imagined having a child, I always thought it would have blue eyes, like me. Never would I have guessed that I’d have a brown-eyed girl.
I’m not sure why I had this idea in my head, but I did. Even the black hair didn’t surprise me, as I had the same black hair when I was born. But mine lightened into the color of damp hay, and so did yours. In fact, when we intertwine our hair now, I can’t tell where yours ends and mine begins.
And you have my mouth, pouty and full. But those eyes remind me that even though you came from me, you do not belong to me. This fact humbles me, and sometimes scares me, but it is important.
It reminds me that you probably won’t end up fixing people’s mistakes for a living, or making pasta sauce from scratch, or loving strawberry-rhubarb pie (though you probably will love it).
I look at you and I see a small person who resembles me, but I am reminded daily, through those big brown eyes like mugs of strong coffee, that you are not me.
I do not say this with any sadness. It is not bittersweet. It is more for me than for you, and when you are older, I think you will understand.
But for now I will love you with everything I have and you will do the same for me. And, in the spirit of living in the moment…