Expectant

 21 years ago, I lay in this same room, facing the television, on my left side because it was better for the baby during doctor ordered bedrest due to pre-eclampsia. I flipped channels, watched old DVDs, and saw whatever was on our limited cable. I held my breath with the expectation of how soon things would change - the induction date was on the calendar, a result of the pre-eclampsia. My excitement was matched only by the boredom of staying so still, my blood pressure skyrocketing and literal stars in my eyes (which might have been beautiful if they weren't so terrifying).

We called the baby TessaBenjamin, because we didn't want to know the gender. What I never would have admitted, not under pain of torture and death, was that I longed for a girl, with a depth of certainty that I couldn't describe even to myself. I understand now that I wanted to have a daughter that I could raise in the belief that she was worthy, loved, capable, interesting, and important. And I understand now that I was afraid of being run over by a son (and I also understand that given that I would raise a son so differently than my own experiences, that wouldn't have been a problem... and it was a risk worth taking, and I knew that, but I understand it better now).

But there I was, expectant. Waiting. My love for the child inside me was fierce in a way I had never experienced before. I didn't know them, but I'd be willing to die for them, and I waited to see their face, to get to know them.

I lay on my left side, uncomfortable, but taken by the miracle of all of it, incredulous that my body could produce a real, live, person. She (because it was her, even though I only guessed it) gave me persistent kicks and turns, reassuring me of her wellness, astounding me with every movement.

The night before she was born, she was particularly active, and I closed my eyes and soaked it all in. I knew she would be my only child, and I wanted to soak up the crazy, marvelous, beloved wonder of all of it. The expectation was delicious, and I rested my hands on my taught, round belly and soaked it up, vowing to never forget it.

I kept my promise to myself. The sofa is different, the walls are different, the floors are different, but the house is the same. My body is different, too. My breasts are filled with silicone, not collostrum; my belly softer and though less rounded than pregnancy still more rounded than it once was. My hair has a wild gray streak, my eyes have more crinkles around them, and my body is covered with scars that once would have terrified me but now are just part of me. But this different body - not pregnant, and no longer containing a uterus - is still the same body. The hands that rested on my belly - my belly, my hands - still remember. I think the house remembers, too. It has cradled that baby and I for every year of her life.

We were so expectant for the life that would come. I was wrong about a lot of it - I didn't predict cancer; I didn't predict divorce - and I'm glad I had no idea what was coming or I would have been too scared and sad to keep going. But instead, I had the optimism that it would all be okay, that somehow it would work out. I didn't know how, or why, it would all work out, but I had a stubborn determination that I would love this baby so fiercely that we could weather any storm, and that she would feel my love deeply in her bones, never questioning it for even a second. It was my expectation, my hope, my dream.

In the pause that came before my daughter transitioned from life in my body to life, I held my breath. I paused, soaking it all up, knowing with certainty that it would never be like this again, and that I needed to hold the moment in time, to will the sensations to never leave my body even when the sensations were far in the past. I held the moment, yet remained expectant for all to come, trying to balance how any of it was possible at all.

She was born eight hours after the induction started, gentle at first and then with an intensity that was too hard to feel real. It all fell apart towards the end, the room palpable with panic. The doctor - kind and warm in every other instance - shouted orders, and a red button was pushed, and then the room filled with people and crash carts - a large one for me, a smaller one for her - and the doctor demanded that I push with all my might so that we could both live. I remember the details like they were yesterday, though some of these moments would be happier if forgotten, and in my first seconds of motherhood I learned that I would do anything, anything at all, to save this baby that I hadn't even met yet. I pushed through the pain, knowing that I would tear and feeling it as it happened, not sure if I could survive it but certain that I would give my life to protect hers, well aware of the terrifying numbers appearing on her monitors.

And then... "it's a girl." My first words were "are you sure?" because it sounded to me, even through tears, like winning the lottery and encountering a magical unicorn and falling in love and summiting a mountain and diving into the ocean and ... and I had never loved like that before.

They placed her in my arms, Susan beside me murmuring with happy tears, her father stepping back to wipe his own tears, and I looked into that face and felt promises and love and hope and more promises and more love rising within me. I had never seen anything so beautiful, and her startled blinking, her starfish hands (the line from the Plath poem became so clear and obvious when I saw them), the small, wet weight of her against my body was balm against the craziness of the world, and even enough that I could try to tune out the needle going in and out of my most tender parts, trying to piece me together again.

There is nothing like that moment, which I have only experienced once in my life, and will never experience again.

And then the expectant pregnancy seems like nothing, nothing at all compared to this, and the expectation of the lives that would follow. I looked into her face and imagined first steps, first words, first days of school, first time on a two wheeler, first sleepovers, first returned "I love you."

She came home to the home that she was conceived in. She snuggled with me on the sofa where I had waited for her. She met all of the firsts that I'd hoped for.

As she got older, we had other firsts, too - her slammed doors, eye rolls, cringes when I tried to hug her or offer comfort. There were tears of broken promises - I did not stay married to her dad. There was the cancer, but also the scares that followed it, and the day that she said, "Mom, are you dying? How do I know if you're telling the truth?" and I promised I would never lie to her.

I kept that promise, even when it was harder than I'd imagined.

And she was a flexible gymnast, a wonderful friend, a story teller with a marvelous sense of humor. She developed an impressive integrity. She was my backpacking partner, my adventurous eater, my dreamer. And she was more than that: a true crime junkie (she didn't get that from me!), an introvert, a superhero when someone was in need (that time with the kids who got dropped off at the wrong bus stop; donating her hair to kids with cancer; volunteering for all kinds of causes...). She was - is - extraordinary.

And more than two years ago, we took the trip in the Subaru, loaded up with blue IKEA bags and a new laptop, and moved into a new phase, so that now there was "our house" and "your dorm" and she had more than one address, and she spent more nights there than in her old room down the hall. This was an expectant time, too, of all the firsts to come. I feared that I would be lonely - that the child whose breathing was as familiar to me as my own - and I feared that I hadn't prepared her adequately, and I feared that she'd be filled with fear, and I feared her fear... I held my breath, waiting, prepared to scoop her up at a moment's notice, to rescue her if rescuing was called for.

She didn't need rescuing. Slowly, I released my breath (though admittedly I think I held it for a year). She found her way, and though she was far away (not so far as colleges go, but farther than we'd ever spent time apart nonetheless) I felt our connection as if she was still in the room down the hall.

She loans me books she recommends. She taught me to crochet. She corrects me when my language is outdated or harmful (glad for that). She believes in me when I long to write. She's become her own woman, so much more than that blinking little bundle in my arms; so much more than the giggling sleepovers; so much more than homework battles or high school graduation.

I'm still expectant, though, still catching my breath and wondering at the miracle of it all. She's extraordinary, and so much more than I was at her age. She's finding her way in her own way, inviting me to the parts of her journey that are appropriate for a mom to join.

As Tessa approaches her 21st birthday, it occurs to me that - sitting here in this room, on a sofa in the same room where I once waited for her - I'm just as expectant as I was 21 years ago. And it's just as miraculous, and just as unknown, and just as scary.

Scary because scary things happen - unmentionable things that I cannot mention. But it's still just as much of a miracle as it was back then, her tiny body swimming inside my larger one.

It's her perfectly formed body in the great big world, filled with questions and wonderment and the dream of firsts. First words are replaced with big ideas about the world that she is developing and sharing with me. One day the trip to college will be replaced with a trip home with those bags in tow (more of them now), but she'll move out one day and never move back, too. That's scary but exciting, too - I never raised her to live at my hip like a child, and she will live a woman's life, not a child's life. She will have jobs, relationships, adventures. She will create. She will be brought to her knees, and she will rise up again. 

And there will be shared trips, holidays, meals. We'll keep sharing book recommendations, and a love of Gilmore girls, and all the milestones.

This week she's coming home, and we're going bar hopping. This sounds much more adventurous than it really is - we're going to have appetizers and sometimes drinks at the 21+ places in the neighborhood that we can walk to. Neither of us is a big drinker, but it's a rite of passage, and I can't wait to share it with her. (And I bought her a silly Miss America style sash that says "Tessa's 21st Birthday" and I'm not sure she'll agree to wear it but at least I can get a picture of her in it!)

If anything, there are more things to look forward to than I could imagine 21 years ago.

I never dreamed I'd get so lucky as to have a daughter who wanted to celebrate her 21st birthday with me, mother-daughter style.

Sometimes I still forget to breathe, holding my breath in this expectant state, worried and hopeful. That hasn't changed. And I still don't want to forget a minute of it - her long, silky hair (will I be lucky enough to see it go gray one day?), her new ideas of the world and how much she teaches me. I don't know if there will be a marriage, a child, or graduations - these things are not promised. Most certainly there will be new jobs, new homes, new friends, new adventures, new books, new creative endeavors, new travels. There were will be a career or careers.

I'm delighted, in love with the woman that I haven't even met yet, the version of Tessa that is still to come. It's a miracle that she's in my life, that she exists, that she is the extraordinary, beautiful, smart, capable, compassionate woman that she is.

There have been rough moments, some of them mine, some of them hers, and there will be more. But mostly, overwhelmingly, it's just been a miracle. I can't believe I got so lucky.

So here we are, she and I, the first 21 years behind us. Undoubtedly, we will watch more movies in this room where I once lay on my left side, expectant, watching her create ripples across my belly, trying to hold the moment so I'd never forget it. I sit here today, writing this, trying to hold this moment, the completion of the first 21 years, the expectation and wonder about the decades to follow. Who will she be? What is our path together, and apart? What choices will she make? What will life throw at her? What will it be like to live in different homes permanently? Will our relationship stay close? Will we maintain our closeness? Who will she invite into our lives? Will I know how to be a loving and wonderful mother to a grown woman? What is it like to mother a full grown woman, not a child? Who will she be, and who will I be, in this new life?

I'm still holding my breath, expectant, and blown away by the miracle of it all.

Happy 21st birthday to the daughter of my dreams. I love you, Tessa, and I hope that all of your dreams come true. And I hope to be there to bear witness to you achieving those dreams, loving you, cheering for you, a steady presence in your life that you can count on whether things are wonderful or terrible. You'll always be my baby, but I'm so grateful that I get to know you as a woman.

***

Of all the girls, in all the world, I'm so glad that you belong to me, and I belong to you. I love you sooooo much! Snuggle, kiss, BITE!*

*The first words were my nightly ritual with Tessa as I tucked her in after stories. She thought it was so funny to add "bite!" and pretend to bite my nose, giggling wildly with silliness after the sweetness. We don't exchange those words anymore... but every time she goes to bed, I say them to myself. They're as true now as they were then.... but I'm relieved she grew out of the idea that biting was funny!