My daughter’s birth and first year of life was the greatest experience of my entire life. At 62, I’m going out on a limb to say it will be a stunning upset if something greater than being Erin’s Mom comes along in the future. In any case, my bucket list has no such potential.

I was 31 when my daughter was born. My father came with a little bouquet of wildflowers. Stood at the foot of my bed. Said, “You look like shit.” Tears in his eyes making it almost endearing.” Then “Don’t do this again Rosie.
Not everybody can be a breeder.” Five months on Disability trying not to lose her, culminating in a 33 hours long fruitless struggle that ended in an emergency C-section. My baby. She would be my only one.

I was fully present to her cuteness. I adored her. Motherhood was the main event in life. Very primal. Earthy. Full, replete with the fecundity of the Earth, our other mother.

Now my daughter is a mother. Both grand daughters pubescent. My oldest grandson’s voice is changing. Life, driven by a greater need than any of mine, prevails. She takes over your body. There was a lot about it I didn’t like. My least favorite thing, which nobody tells you, was the genital engorgement. And horny!

There are lots of things nobody tells you. Like how much you will want it over with, when you can’t move, can’t eat, can’t sleep. It’s like an alien possession. Who gave this parasite veto power? I like that music, so stop your kicking.

It’s the people, the individuals who miraculously emerge and bond with you. And while its fun to notice the myriad of genetic traits and proclivities, the reality is they are their own persons.

Yes, parenting is a privilege. Happy Mother’s Day to you all.