letter to my pregnant daughter

Dear Delia,

I think, but I'm not certain, the last time he cupped his chubby hand all the way around my neck- all the way till his hand lay flat right at the center of my throat- was on a walk to the mailbox on a hot afternoon.  But I'm not certain.  Not certain that was the last time.

If I had known it was the last time she would place both hands on my cheeks to tell her story I would have looked closer.  I would have gazed into those great big beautiful eyes and memorized every detail.  I would have asked questions about that story till she grew weary if I had known it was the last time she'd place her hands on my cheeks to spill words.

I don't remember the last time Mamie or Mommy became Mama.  Just like that with no warning or foretelling it just became Mama.  I can't tell you the last time I cut up a plate of spaghetti or chicken breast when I'd never be asked again.  I didn't know the last time was the last time.

The last time I brushed your hair back into half ponytail and held round brush to your bangs was - I don't know.  One day in that eggplant colored bathroom before our world rocked hard.  

But I had no idea I'd never do it again.

How many nights did you crawl into bed with me?  How many nights did your daddy move to the sofa?  Probably way past when most would say it should have been, but not me.

But I didn't know the last time I felt the weight of your body wake me as it lay in the middle it was the last time you'd come.

When he'd never say po-wa-wa again and ask for popsicle next time.

When she'd never turn both feet in as she walked to just one day walk straight.

There's a last time for everything my darlin'.

And it rushes in like an unexpected wind and lifts away childhood one veined heart pounding moment at a time.

Carries it away into a swirling gathering of what Webster calls memories but what your mother calls a slow glorious death.

And only few times will you pause and wonder if it's happening.

Because car seats are heavy and bags are weighted and baths seem unending.  Meals come one after the other till you are weary and papers need checking and teeth need cleaning and you dig one after another after another of something from underneath the sofa and why did the dryer have to eat the very last matching sock when you didn't know someone was drinking the last drop of milk and payday is still two days away so there's too much to think about to think about last times?

You will see.  So listen closely now and take heed my love.

You didn't leave home the day you moved out.  You didn't leave home the day you married that red headed boy of yours.  You still came back.  You still lay with your head in my lap and cried over  problem and I knew you were still my little girl living in a woman's body trying really hard to be a woman. I'm sure you'll probably lie with your head in my lap again and cry - I hope so - but even if you do you'll be just visiting. 

Cause now, my darlin' baby girl,  you've left home.

And I know exactly when it happened.

Now she swells big tiny inside you and you look beautiful and you really do glow as you sit across the room and rest your hand on that spot that aches and now you've left home.

She's the one who has taken you away. 

And it is above all my moments of motherhood with you my love the most amazing glorious take my breath away moment of all.

And I know exactly when it happened.

Love,
Mama

Read the first letter here.  When I'm gonna be a grandma.

her first mother's day

It was Saturday and Gregg was working when labor pains began.  And I didn't know what labor pains felt like.  So I called Mama.  And she said she couldn't remember and told me to call my cousin Teresa.  

But Lena wouldn't let me.  She just put me in the car as firmly as she made me buy that pregnancy test and Christmas onesie seven months earlier and drove me to the hospital.

And they put me on the monitor and keep me a few hours.  Then they sent me home with Braxton Hicks.  If google had been then I'd been all over that.  Cause y'all, that's what I do.

So Monday came and I worked all day.  Can't remember where.

But Tuesday came and I worked all day.  With the sun to Louisville and back late afternoon.  And I felt bad.  By the time Mama and I hit Carthage all I wanted to do was sleep through me some Braxton Hicks.

And I did.  I went straight to bed on the sofa.  Gregg comes home at eight or so and we call the doctor. We'd done the little minutes thing and pains were three or so minutes apart.  I was told to come on now.

But I didn't want to.  It was Braxton Hicks.  I had six weeks to go. 

So by ten the pains were ninety seconds apart.  And I was told to come NOW.  

But I needed a shower and my hair needed washing.  So Gregg and I fought and I took a shower.  

Then I needed make-up cause I was all cute and pregnant and I was gonna stay cute and I believed pregnant. 

So Gregg and I fought and I put make-up on.

And when they wheeled me into a room my pains were only a minute apart.  And nothing could be done.  It was not Braxton Hicks and when Mama and I were alone in the room I thought my water broke.  

But it was blood.  Lots of blood.  

And I was hemorrhaging and she was coming and I was in trouble.  And so was she.

Then they gave morphine.  And all I remember was burning and some cursing they heard in the waiting room and it was kinda like a TV show when I asked where I was and yelled at them to get her out. 

And that was it.  For over twenty-four hours I remember nothing.  

But when I woke I remember her.  She was tiny.  Preemie, but healthy.

Beautiful.  

And now it's Mother's Day twenty-six years later and my baby's having a baby.  

And the feeling is a little like amazing mixed with awe and much gratitude. 

My baby girl's first Mother's Day.

My baby's having a baby.