Perfect Little Fingers

“There are places in the heart you don’t even know exist until you love a child.” --Anne Lamott

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My head was pounding. An ocean of emotions pushed up through my chest, threatening to surge up into my throat. Blinking, I swallowed hard and refocused on the task before me. I picked up a piece of laundry mechanically, folded it, set it aside. As I picked up another, I took a deep breath and tried to sort through some of the thoughts pressing in on my mind. What have I gotten myself into? Why in the world had I thought myself capable of doing this?

Not only capable--I had actually thought that I would be good at this.

"You are going to be such a great mom!" I had been told that so many times. I had believed it--and soaked up the confidence expressed by so many others. I had made a choice to move forward, thinking that I knew exactly what I was getting myself into--and that I was ready.

I had always wanted to be a mom. More than I had wanted anything else.

And now I was one.

My baby, oblivious to my mood, was investigating a bookshelf across the room. Her tiny hand moved across the spines of a few books before she went all in--emptying the contents of the shelf in a matter of seconds.

I picked up a handful of laundry and leaned over to place it in our bottom drawer. As I shut the drawer I bit my lip--thinking about all that I still needed to do.

Too much. Everything was too much. Too big, too heavy.

Except me. Too small. Too weak. Too emotional. Not ready.

As I stood up my head connected with the corner of the rocking chair. I crumpled into a heap as tears poured out of my eyes, and gasping sobs tore from my throat. It didn't hurt that bad. But it hurt just enough to break the dam I had built to keep everything back.

My baby turned, a look of concern on her perfect face. Dropping to her knees she crawled to me. I lifted her up and held her tightly against me. Her tiny hand touched my shoulder, and she patted it. Pat, pat, pat. Three gentle pats from those perfect, tiny fingers--comforting me in just the way I had comforted her so many times before.

I am a mom.

There is nowhere I would rather be. Nothing that I would rather be doing.

I am not ready. How could one ever be? I am not perfect. I am not even very good at this most days, but I am a good mom. I made a choice. And I will continue to move forward.

I must continue to quietly do all the good that I can for my dear little one.

My heart was pounding. An ocean of emotions pushed up through my chest, threatening to surge up into my throat. Blinking, I swallowed hard and refocused on the task before me. I stood, with my baby still held tightly to my chest, gently patted her back, and took a deep breath. What have I gotten myself into? The adventure of a lifetime. What makes me think myself capable of doing this? I can't allow myself to question whether or not I am capable. I just have to do it.

This little one is depending on me.