The night before their birthdays I buy them helium balloons and daffodils; the flowers that filled our apartment after their late winter births. I put out the birthday ring, the tree of life cup, the small wooden rainbow, the necklace with the ceramic pendant. There is ice skating and slumber parties and caramel apples and ice cream cakes. I imagine the details of these days and hope they will echo back in some future luminous memory. But when it’s done I am not thinking about them. I am, selfishly, indulgently, thinking of me.
It’s hard to look at those early pictures, new motherhood so naively and awkwardly radiating from me. Of course I love her, that wild, oblivious, 23-year-old me. I love her like I’d love a third child: without judgement, with curiosity and tenderness. But I can’t connect back to her. I can’t or I won’t. Because I’ve never been more alone than in those first years of being a young mother. And although I can see true joy on my face, I remember the price. In some ways, I was braver then. I lived inside my idealism so confidently. I was still very much convinced that if I played my cards the right way, I’d never get hurt, not really. It’s the distance between she and I that is hard to take in. I’m not the same. Time always wins.
Tonight marks 11 years since I became her. That night I laughed through contractions on the couch, ate manicotti and envied the Chianti in everyone else’s glass. I could tell you every detail of that night and the following day right up until my daughter was born in that very room. I could tell you every detail because I was there. But to this day, I marvel that that obstinate, dreamy girl and I are one in the same.
