March 2008
The snow is slushy outside. I go to Rite Aid because I need moisturizer. But really, I go to buy a pregnancy test. I end up buying three. The cashier smiles at me. They are always friendly here.
April 2008
I buy lip gloss and three pregnancy tests. The cashier smiles. I buy gum.
May, June 2008
I just buy one test, each time. The cashier says, "It'll happen, honey. It'll happen."
September 2009
Who the hell am I kidding?
January 2010
Ah, well.
March 2010
The nurse tells me I'm pregnant. I cuss at her, thinking it is a bad, bad, bad joke. I projectile-ugly-cry. She asks if someone will be with me during the pregnancy. I explain I'm married and that I'm actually crying tears of joy.
March 2010
I hear my daughter's heartbeat for the first time.
July 2010
I bleed. We worry. I go on bed rest. But all is well.
November 2010
- Birthday nyo ngayon, ma'am?
- Ang cute naman! Sabay kayo ni baby!
Until...
- Ay, birthday nyo pala kahapon? Sayang 'di pa umabot.
Until...
- I can see her head!
Until...
- She needs a C-section. The baby's head won't go down.
Until...
- Congratulations!
Until...
- Ma'am, you're in the recovery room. You're okay. The baby's okay.
November 2010
My own mother is explaining why my breasts are hurting like they have never hurt before. "Your milk is coming in." The pain is excruciating.
I breastfeed for 22 months.
November 2010
I see my own mother, asleep on the rocking chair, my daughter in her arms.
January 2011
I go back to work. Another co-teacher who had also just given birth walks into my cubicle. Together, we cry.
February 2011
I am typing a script with my right hand, my left hand is cradling my daughter, making sure she can still comfortably suckle my breast.
April 2011
One whole month with just my daughter.
December 2011
I am exhausted.
2012
My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.
January 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.
May 2013
My mother flies in to help me and my daughter settle into our new home. My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.
December 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.
January 2014
My daughter kisses me and says, "I love you." She is old enough to know what it means now. And she says it. And means it.
May 2014
My daughter is growing too fast. She gives me reason to live. My daughter is Tarzan-clasping my left leg. She giggles. Perhaps in her dreams we are swinging on trees, catching moonbeams. She said she wanted to climb a tree to get the "crescent moon", right before she drifted off to sleep.
May 2015
It's just me and my daughter now. There is motherhood, and there is single motherhood. It defines me and refines me. There is so little but she gives me so much. She tells me about her day and says, "We have a good life, Mama."
