Thirteen years ago today, I became a mom.

This phrase keeps running through my mind.  Like a broken record, it keeps replaying, reminding me of just how long it’s been since my first-born made her appearance into the world.

At church yesterday, I listened to some folks describe their parents, their families of origin, and I wondered how my children would describe me when they were all grown up and I was a mere memory in their life.  Would my first-born daughter always feel that I preferred her brothers, because she felt that they got more time and attention from me?  Would she feel that I was aloof with her, simply because I never know what to say to her?  Would she know that I love her?

But as I sit here with that sentence running through my head, “Thirteen years ago today, I became a mom,” I know that she is the reason I am a mom.  When I found out that I was pregnant, I became a mom.  I became anxious to do everything right for her.  And as my belly grew the slightest bit round, I was so eager to show it off.  I loved being pregnant, I loved the fact I was going to be a mom, I loved the fact I was going to have a baby.  As my belly grew big and heavy with her, I happily (and somewhat painfully) waddled about, ready to meet the tiny creature that kept poking me in the ribs.

And on the day she was born, when the pictures show that she was red and wrinkled and I looked exhausted, all I remember thinking is that she was the most beautiful thing ever and how amazing it was that she’d come from inside me.

Thirteen years on, I still think she’s most amazingly beautiful.  I think she’s incredibly intelligent and talented, that she has a smart mouth (I wonder where she got that from?) and that she’s got wonderful things ahead of her.  And I still marvel that once upon a time, she was a tiny creature inside my belly, shoving her toes into my ribs.  She’s nearly as tall as I am now, and her feet are bigger than mine.

Thirteen years ago, I became a mother.