19

Nineteen years ago, I became a mother. I had no idea of the universes inside of me that would be revealed when this little person was born into our lives. This little person we made, who didn’t exist, and then did, who grew inside of my body, then entered the world totally dependent on us for everything: food, shelter, comfort, survival; answers to questions about a dead squirrel on the sidewalk, about what happens when we die, about why people are mean, about whether trees have souls, about what’s beyond the universe if the universe is finite. It’s one thing to answer those questions for ourselves, it’s another to consider them in partnership with a little being who trusts you completely, who turns to you for everything. It’s a big responsibility. Our children opened gateways inside me that I don’t think I would ever know the existence of without them. Our children doubled the me of me. It’s as if I was only half of me, and then we had kids, and their existence in our lives pulled back the curtain on the rest of me. I cannot articulate the profound, breathtaking transformation and realizations that parenthood blew open for me.

Our son, who made me a mother, is 19 today. This is his first birthday we’re not together for. He’s fine with that, he’s got friends to celebrate with in college. I’m okay with it too. I made his favorite dessert on Saturday when he was home, and we celebrated as a family by eating chocolate torte together. The fact that he loves us but he’s okay with not being here, that he’s happy to be out on his own in the world, makes me feel like we did okay as his guardians.