I’m a mother who got pregnant from a phone call. I gave birth in the maternity hospital nursery. Or whatever is the name of that room, where they let the babies when they can’t stay where they should.
I’ve made an express course on how to change diapers and burp a baby. No baby shower or gender reveal party for me, although it was a bombastic event.
My long gestation let female elephants green with envy. I which they could keep that record, I thought one day. But it was so worth it!
I also cried when I saw my daughter for the first time. It was a mixture of deep love and sadness, as I had never felt before. While I had my baby, someone had given up hers. This confusion took a long time to separate from me. I purged it into tears, little by little.
I cannot judge a mother who gives up her offspring. I don’t’ know the size of her pain. I am only agonized by the fact that she gave me a gift I won’t be able to return. If she ever looks back and the wild flame of the female who inhabits her is reborn, I will say I’m sorry, it’s too late. Because I’m already all instinct, unable to get rid of that part of me.
Wait: listen! It’s the world of the perfect ones peeking through with their answers. It’s an attempt at support, I know, but, oh, the world of the perfect! Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they do.
The land where the mother gives up everything: body, time, essence, to give herself to her offspring. There, where she turns into a sacred and untouchable heroine. Woe to the one who dared to look in the mirror just once! I don’t belong here.
I’m not from there, nor am I, nor the vast majority of mothers like me. We do what we do, motivate by a naive dream of happiness. Selfish, yes. There is little philanthropy here, except for the imagination of the masses.
Ah, the world of the perfect! The one where the mother who leaves her baby undervalues her blessings. She becomes an outcast in a society that does little for her. The society of the perfect does not reach out.
I turn to the side and find yet another world, forgive them, Father. The more-than-perfect think that the foster mother can do less than the birth mother.
There, repentant women return to their babies. There, the mother who sprouted from a fright leaves her post, bent to the truths of DNA. I wish I could reduce life to so little. I’m not from here either.
I was born in the wind of misunderstood luck. From absolute love that has nothing to do with blood. I am a woman, selfish in myself, divided. I am the one who unfolds and is nothing like a saint. I wish no one would be led to donate what I received. But I am so grateful for that!
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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