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I don’t know if I should thank COVID-19 or The Overdue Life of Amy Byler by Kelly Harms, but lately, I’ve been thinking about motherhood a lot. Like how no one explains what ‘enjoy it before it’s over’ really means. I heard the advice several times and even passed those words of wisdom to other parents. But I never explained what it really meant.

https://play.ht/articles/d076360ec167

To be honest, I never stopped to think about what it all meant to me. For fourteen years, it was my kid and me against the world. Eventually, there came dogs and a cat, and boyfriends that I thought would stick around but didn’t and finally one that did, three years ago. He put a ring on it and haven’t left. I emphasize left because my son’s father did just that, in the age before the text message, and FaceTime, he left us without a word, just disappeared into thin air — no money, not even a note for closure. Alone and definitely afraid, I put our little mini-us on my hip and hustle so hard; I didn’t even stop to think, much less smell the roses. There were a few nights when I got in the shower, plunged my head under the hard trickle of the showerhead, and cried. I didn’t want my baby to hear it.

At 19, I knew nothing of babies, but I had taken out several books about them from the library, and someone gifted me the What to Expect When You are Expecting book, and they were a goldmine of knowledge. When I cried, went to the bathroom because I was afraid to pass my sadness through my breast milk to my joyful baby. I didn’t want him to be sad like me.

So I cried alone and hustled. In the year 2002, I became a single mother, something I never expected or saw myself doing. You see, I wanted to be a journalist and a business owner. I saw myself in those suits with the shoulder pads and the mid-level heels, cute enough to show off, comfortable enough to walk and stand. I never dreamed of a baby. Yet here he was, and he looked just like his father.

One day things got harder than usual. I forget precisely what happened, but I remember feeling as if I was drowning, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t thread water. My stepmother had sent me a prayer for la Virgencita Maria. She said in her letter to pray to her when I felt weak because if anyone knows what it takes to be a mother, it would be her. That night when I came home from work, after picking up my baby from daycare, I took him out gently off his car seat, sang to him, and put him on my breast. That night my milk was not enough. I wasn’t eating much and was burning too many calories, I knew it was bound to happen. I walked over to my kitchen and reached for the powder formula WIC gave me for that month, and I was happy I applied and thankful to have qualified. I made my baby his bottle. I burped him and put him in the crib I hardly use in the second room of the two-bedroom trailer. Usually, he sleeps in the bassinet next to my bed. I closed the door to my room — something I hardly ever do.

I remember my knees felt so weak, and my body shook. I was in muscle failure, but I didn’t know what I’ve been carrying to get me there. My vision blurred as I kneeled. Once they reached the itchy carpet, I felt for the card on my nightstand. I knew it sat there, in front of the lamp without a shade, looking quietly with pity at the textured bone-white ceiling. I slid it in front of me. But I wouldn’t look down at it. I didn’t want her pity, so I flipped it over. All I needed were the words on the back. They carried magic; strength and I needed that at the moment. The words were hard to read, not because I didn’t understand them but because my eyes kept filling up with tears. One, two, three droplets sprinkled the card before I slid it away from their path and saved the ink from drowning. I rubbed the back of my eyes and nose dry with my other hand.

I was exhausted, physically, emotionally, deep in my soul. I was lost, and I did the only thing I knew to do. I prayed. That night she and I made a contract. I needed strength, and I knew she had boatloads. In exchange, I told her I would use it to rear my child in a way that no one would know he came from a single-parent household. He will not have those scars. Because I would love him so much, he wouldn’t have time to miss the other half of his gene pool, and I will provide for him as if there were two of us. From that moment forward, there were two parents in the home: She and me.

She listened to me that night. I knew it because although my knees shook when I got up; I felt stronger. I remember taking my clothes off and rubbing my loose striated middle and felt the spot where my skin folds and his head used to lay six months ago. I will not lie and tell you I looked at myself in the mirror and admired my motherly beauty because I didn’t. I glanced the other way when I passed the two mirrors on the way to the shower. It was enough to feel the raised marks, to know they are there. I am still learning to love my body. But my pooch is joy. It reminded me then, and it does now — that my baby shared my body for almost a whole year — nine months, and three weeks to be exact. I housed a human being there. It doesn’t get more magical than that.

When I got out of the shower, I was someone new. I was still sad, angry, and lost, but I knew we would make it. This was a fact, not a belief. Those years, we hustled nonstop. Sometimes I wish I would have enjoyed them more and been the relaxed, easy-going mom that would say, “I’ll tell your father when he comes back from work.” But I couldn’t. I had to be the disciplinarian and be nice too, and it was so hard to do. There were times I lost the balance. I’m sure I confused him and gave him some other scars, which he will sort out with a therapist later on. But those years, it was just him and I against the world, y la Virgencita pushing me.

I got promoted; he attended private schools, made honor rolls, attended leadership camps, and I worked so many hours to keep everything going. At one point, I could even afford a visiting babysitter to take him to school and extracurriculars, because, for whatever reason, they don’t have buses. La Virgencita blessed me with more than I asked, and I, like a stubborn bull, continued pulling and moving even when I didn’t need to.

When I was a kid, I thought I would die. A bull got away from the men, herding them down my street to another plot of land. One got out of the herding line and stuck its horns into our door. He was so strong; he shook the whole frame. Our grandmother ushered us to the bathroom in the back of the house and told us to be quiet so as not to provoke the bull. Once the house stopped shaking, she brought us out. She said one farmhand, lassoed the bull and made him turn back to the line. When I went to look, there were holes in our door.

I became that bull. I kept going till one day, I met a man who didn’t leave. I then looked up from grinding my horns and my baby was in middle school and as independent as I had raised him to be. I don’t remember most of everything, and I know I didn’t live in the moment. I was so afraid of failing and letting everything collapse on our heads.

I miss my little shadow. He’s seventeen, too cool for my kisses and hugs. Each morning before everyone wakes up, I sneak into his room. Those dark curls he got from my gene pool peak from the top of his blanket. I pull it down just enough to see his forehead. I kiss him, whisper a prayer, and tell him how much I love him. Sometimes he tells me “I love you too, mom.” Other times he’s too far sleep, dreaming of I don’t know what.

I have one more year with him before he goes to college. I get sad thinking about it. My husband tells me he’s ready, and I should be happy he is. But I don’t know. I rub my pooch; the spot underneath my belly button to the left where his head laid for the best part of almost a year and he was physically part of me. I may tempt him into some online classes from home. Who knows? I haven’t figure out a way to part from my better half.