It has been an up-and-down week. Mostly up, fortunately. We've been filling the tubby with bubbles and hopping in together in the evenings. It's becoming a new little homing ritual for us. I can't get enough of looking at your mini naked profile with your toddler tummy so taunt and round. It makes me smile every time. And you get a kick out of my belly button, pressing it with hopes that I will break into sing-songy giggles. I've been looking at your belly button a lot lately, noticing its shape and the little crevice. Tonight I thought about how that very part of you connected you to your first mother. I rubbed it with my forefinger, feeling its ridges and wondering how and under what circumstances it became disconnected from her. For most newborns, the moment of the umbilical cord being severed is celebrated. For you, your body being severed from hers was an eerie sign of things to come. I wonder if she knew, in that moment, that she would be separated from her daughter.Your birthday approaches and I can't help but to think of the woman who carried you and gave birth to you. I was not a part of your birth and I shamefully admit that I constantly have to remind myself of your birthday. To me, your birthday is arbitrary--a day estimated by a judge based on information provided by a doctor and a social worker. The judge was a fan of the number "28" that month, so many babies, like you, have a 28th birthday. This is a disappointment that I had not expected as a mother; but it feels awful to not feel connected to that date--to know that the great possibility exists that you are not connected to that date--and what that may feel for you as you grow.
Many of the unknowns are big, so the details of your birth may seem small by comparison. But our identity is formed by such small things like knowing our birthday and birth story. I know that I was born on a Sunday at 12:48 PM. I am an Aquarius. I was sunny-side up and apparently caused my mother a lot of grief. I think of my mother every year on my birthday just as my mother thinks of me. How can this not be so for my daughter?
That little belly button stares back at me as I think of the unknowns. Like who gave you those pouty lips or who/what gave you that mystery scar on your right arm. It's difficult to articulate what it feels like to not know where your child's scars came from. It's a heartbreaking thing to have so many holes in one's story. Sometimes having information can be painful. Sometimes not having information can be painful. I look at you and rub your scar, rub your navel, rub the freckle on your thigh and think of who made you. Who knew your first--who knows that part of your story. And how much those details may or may not matter to you when you are old enough to question.
