Do you like surprises? Me, neither. Unless it’s, here’s a bag filled with a million dollars sort of surprise. Still, I got a big one this Mother’s Day. My baby girl became a woman.On.Mothers.Day. If that isn’t putting a fine point on it all, I don’t know what is. I thought we had some time. She’s only 11, well, nearly 12. In a week, she will be 12-years-old. But if I’d been in any sort of denial about my baby growing up, welp, that’s all been slapped right out of my mind.
Mother’s Day wasn’t what I expected this year on any account. Normally, I relax and spend the day focused on myself, alone. It has been heavenly and indulgent and wonderful for my entire tenure as a mother because my husband is awesome. He gets me. He really does.
This year was different because mortality decided it wanted to pay me an unexpected visit just to remind me that I am not actually invincible. I am human. I err. I can die at any moment. We all can.
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While I’ve been secretly patting myself on the back because I don’t feel like I’ve had a “midlife crisis” like some others who have told me they are in the throes of one, I got too damn big for my britches, as my southern mama would say. While I was busy not obsessing over my looks, rejecting bread like it was syphilis and trying to fight mother nature my body played a nasty trick on me. While I was being “cool” and “aging gracefully” my body had other plans.
Here I am with a health created, self-induced midlife crisis. Suddenly, the carefree, living in the skin I’m in, tired of being fat but not tired enough to do something about it woman is now, working out and eating like her life depends on it. I’m not fighting the hands of time but I’m trying to keep death at bay. I’m trying to reverse the damage a lifetime of abusing my body has inflicted.
So amidst all of this, on the bleakest of Mother’s Day, laying in bed feeling completely overwhelmed by my own inner monologue…living in this moment of the winter of my most discontent…an effing period snapped me out of it. My baby girl became a woman and put even a finer point on the fact that I’ve got work to do. My girls need me and there is no time for self-pity. Self-care yes. Self-reflection? Hell yeah. I need to be at my best because my girls need me for many more firsts.
She was a little scared. It’s new and it was her first. It was different than her sister, as they’ve always been. It was magical and scary for us both. But it was exciting too because it’s her first and she’s a young woman. This is the beginning of a lifetime of womanhood. We are all three of us women. We’re like a club or a coven or something but this binds us in an even deeper way. Then we went out to celebrate with Starbucks because in our house becoming a woman is cause for celebration.
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My babies are growing up. One of them, quite literally, on Mother’s Day. The Big Guy and my girls have been my saviors in this life, more times than once. They give me reason and purpose and that is more than enough. The Big Guy saved me from myself when he came into my life. The girls rescued me from mediocrity. Having them has always made me want to do and be better. Because of them, I am becoming my best self.