Things Mothers Do
I carried you for months in the uncomfortable breech position while you cheerfully kicked my bladder into submission and showed me early on who was boss.
I took fourteen staples for you, groaned my way through a stupid morphine drip that did nothing for my pain. (“Ten more minutes? What do you mean I have to wait ten more minutes? I need it now!”)
I spent weeks of nights that were more waking than not when you decided sleep was optional and ultimately undesirable, wearing a path in the floor and turning the muscles in my back into jerky as I carried, carried, carried you into a fragile, colicky sort of comfort.
And this morning, I scooped your watery poop into a tiny plastic container while you cooed contentedly at me, oblivious to how impossible it is to do so with the little claw the doctor’s office gives you to do so. I even smeared some on my finger—unintentionally, of course.
So thirteen years from now, please don’t roll your eyes at me as if I’ve never done anything for you and I’m the most horrible mother in the world who doesn’t understand you and exists solely to ruin your life.
“Because.I.Have.Done.Stuff.” She says, as she washes poop off her fingers at the kitchen sink.