So I birthed a baby about a month ago. Cheers of glee, grandeur and overjoyousness can be heard as far as Floyd County! Mmmhmmm, maybe. More like shivers of nerves, apprehension and doubt. James Lexington Moseley Higham was lovingly (and gently I might add) pushed into this world on July 23rd and the overflow of emotion – and bodily fluids – hasn’t stopped since. People keeping asking me what it feels like to be a mom. I think that’s just weird because, quite frankly, I don’t feel like a mom. But maybe I will in 10 or so years when he yells at me for having four names.
No one calls me mom (yet), save for slang salutations from my peers along the lines of “Hey Momma!” I don’t have mom hair (yet) or mom jeans (I hate jeans) and the only mom-like thing I do is lick my fingers to wipe the dried breastmilk off his face. Well I guess, for that matter, the whole breastfeeding thing might be considered pretty momish, too.
But mostly I look into the eyes of this new little person who lives with us and I think, “Does he think I’m pretty?”
I worry that my brand new baby-of-perfection, who doesn’t have a superficial nugget in his diaper (yet), is looking up at me and critically thinking… “So THIS is my mom.” I wonder if he has the same feelings of glee, grandeur and overjoyousness at getting us as we have of getting him. I wonder if he’s sending Parent Announcement cards to all his baby brethren in the cabbage patch with our measurements.
Who knows really.
I *do* know it feels pretty great when he smiles at me… I start to think perhaps I’m doing something right. Maybe notsomuch as a mom, but as a cool, fun friend with awesome boobs. And that’s probably better because I’m pretty sure friends would never let friends wear mom jeans.