It started out innocent enough. I gave birth. My second child. My first daughter. We had our first talk that night in the hospital after visiting hours were over and everyone had gone home; just her and I celebrating her first birthday together. She wore a form fitting blanket and a sock cap. I had on a lovely hospital gown and booties. We looked dashing, the two of us. I whispered to her that I loved her; that I hoped someday, after all the business of growing up had been accomplished, we’d be friends. She listened quietly as she slept in my lap. I could tell she was thinking about what I’d said.
The truth was, I was afraid. I’d had a son just 20 months ago. But, sons…..they’re another breed. They’re more outside of yourself and you can watch and marvel and laugh at how different they are, all rough and tumble and making truck sounds. A daughter, though, is rather like occupying the same space with your reflection. You look into a mirror and her face is superimposed onto yours. It causes a catch in your breath.
I was 30 when my life started to make a little more sense to me. I had grown up, an only child, fearful and shy but with a hidden arsenal of zest and spunk that only a few got to see. I loved books and movies. My favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz and I would go into my room and act out the part of Dorothy. That “somewhere over the rainbow” idea….I could relate to that. Something was out there and I wanted to find it! But I carried with me a vague sense of having to apologize and not being quite sure for what. I felt inexplicably guilty for creating dirty laundry I cleaned up every crumb I dropped. I felt strangely like an intruder. And one day, when I was all grown up and had a blonde headed little boy in tow, I was asked the question when I’d have another. I responded that I’d like to wait a bit longer. “It must be nice to have a choice”, came the hard reply. That was my mother’s voice. I almost heard a click in my brain, as if a picture had been taken. It felt like a slap at the time. It seems like a light now. I had been an intruder, to her. And it made all the difference in our dance as mother and daughter over the years. You dance at a distance, all choppy and out of sync, when you haven’t been asked to dance.
Through the years, I’ve learned more about my mother’s life and some of the reasons for her choices and feelings. It’s a messy business and the dance never got any easier. So, when my daughter and I were sharing her first birthday party that night in the hospital, this loomed heavy in the air. And I whispered to her, but more to God, “May I have this dance, Rachael Diamond?”.
