A mother, but not quite

On Motherhood: A poem from Mother's Day

Before I got out of bed my husband said, “Happy Mama’s Day.”

I had to stop myself from crying.

I’m supposed to be happy, grateful even.

I’m supposed to be celebrating.

But I’m in mourning.

Mourning the woman I once was. 

Will I ever see her again? Will I ever be able to listen to her unfettered dreams?

She’s barely breathing. 

Who is this person who has taken her place?

I have no fucking clue.

I’d hate her if I wasn’t her.

I am stuck between two identities, not fully here nor there.

A mother, but not quite. 

A mother without any of the joys.

I didn’t wake up to the sound of little feet on the old wood floors.

The sound of a broken I love you where the L isn’t fully formed.

I didn’t wake up to tiny hands around my neck or the warm weight of a small body tucked in next to me.

I woke up uncomfortable because my body is no longer mine.

I woke up guilty for not being happy, for not loving pregnancy, for not being better at this.

I woke up disappointed in myself for not channeling joy and grace to my son who knows nothing of this Earth.

I have no grace.

Only worry, fear, grief.

An awkward, stumbling existence where each new day brings me something that is not my own.

My body.

My mind.

They belong to someone else.

Someone I have yet to meet.

The mother and the child, I can’t wait to know you.

Maybe then I will be celebrating.

And today will be different.

— to all the mothers who have yet to meet their children.