Waking Kate this morning, I was reminded of the little Kate. She still has the pillow she got when she was eight months old. She loves that pillow, even though it’s disgustingly filthy, the once-white pillow case is brown with dust mites and age. It stinks. But she clings to that pillow like youthful innocence. She buries her pretty, alabaster face in its brown stinkiness and pulls a piece of the pillow case up to her chin and rubs it there. I shake her and jiggle her and tousle her hair, and she reaches out and grabs me in her vice-like grip and pulls me into bed with her. We snuggle for a few seconds, she grunts Kate answers to my mommy questions, and I leave her there to doze for a few more minutes.
Before the fat lady sings today, we’ll have an argument, throw a couple of barbs at each other, she’ll be disgusted with me, I’ll be irritated by her, she’ll tell me to calm down, I’ll tell her to stop sulking. She’ll smile. I’ll melt. And there will be much ado about Kate today.
I love Kate’s birthday. I love it because the word “birthday” contains the word “birth” and whereas I don’t think I can ever, in a million years, stand to be pregnant again, I like to remember that at one time Kate was this tiny thing growing inside me. I like to be reminded that even though she’s 17 now, there is still an umbilical cord connecting our hearts.
Happy Birthday, babylove. Love, Mom.
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