Children are supposed to be a gift from God right? Then what was it about me that made me ineligible to receive this endowed blessing and opportunity to cultivate a legacy that would speak not only to me but to the generations of ancestors that proceeded me, who hoped and dreamed in my bringing forth life that would speak to future ideas and concepts that would represent me in my inevitable absence, when the vibrations of my voice could no longer be heard but through my seed, they would know what I overcame, stood for and believed in.
While other children in kindergarten were concerned with numbers and their ABC’s, my mind was occupied with thoughts on the kind of mother that I would someday be. I was consumed with the feelings of love that I would have for all ten of my children…yes ten, until of course I reasoned my way down to four. Two girls and two boys and I would love them with everything that I had and they would love me just as hard and our bond would be an unbreakable testimony of how I was able to at least do something right.
At the root of this desire was pure unadulterated love. Love that would envelope me despite my flaws and shortcomings. Love that would wake me up in the morning with purpose and direction, giving me the strength to contribute to the collective community because I had examples to set and minds to mentor and shape. Love that would take me outside of myself, focusing on something bigger than me; the lives of my children and how I would be responsible to help them navigate this unscrupulous world while still remaining bright lights within it.
I thought about doing hair and washing clothes; granting permission to overnight sleepovers with friends, the white knuckled driving lessons and plans of graduation parties and certainly without a doubt, speech’s that only a magna cum laude would bring as they wrapped up their college experience with a nice big red bow. Weddings, filled with caterers and first dances and calls in the middle of the night as yet another grandchild was born to carry on the legacy. But my body would betray my heart, hopes and dreams. Life would pass through me on two separate occasions, but neither would survive. My son would always remain a figment of my imagination. My daughter would totally take my breath away as I took in all of her features as if I was looking in a mirror at my younger self, she was breathtaking. With both of them something in me died too and I was never the same.
It was a cruel joke that the universe played in allowing me to dream so vividly about my mini-me’s, only to take them away from me, leaving my arms bear and heart broken, delving into unspeakable pain, unbearable pain; so much so that I wanted to sacrifice my soul in order to stop the hurt. What good was life anyway since as a woman, clearly, I was incapable of accomplishing the most basic function that a woman was created for. Surely, I was some kind of a defect and I needed to be sent back to the manufacturer, recalled if you will, so that I could be made better.
But guess what? I’m still standing! Although those losses changed me forever and although I may never smell the scent of my own newborn baby, I am not a defect. I am an example of how despite all that life has thrown at me, I am a survivor and that same heart that hoped and dreamed about the impact that my seed would have on the future, stands open and ready to love ANY child that comes into my path with all the same love that I will always have for my own children.