Mum

When I think of my mum, the image of a large squishy pillow comes to mind and that is not to say that she is square or made of cotton balls and patterned fabric, but that she, to me, is comfort. And today, to understand this pillow effect she has over me, I am dissecting motherhood like I would a frog in a ninth grade Biology class, carefully with goggles, gloves and squeamish hesitation.

These are the steps as I know them.

FIRST: Spontaneous and/or strategic sex between a male and female where an escaped sperm awkwardly and somewhat forcefully introduces itself to an egg, creating a sesame seed sized speck, a wee white guppy.

SECOND: A missed menstrual cycle; a couple queasy mornings and frantic unexplainable mood swings precede the piddling on of positive pregnancy tests.

THIRD: Chocolate covered pickles and peanut buttered bacon substitute cups of coffee, cigarettes, whiskey and bottles of wine with dinner.

FOURTH: "We're having a baby." They say and write and say and write.

FIFTH: Doctors with cold clear jelly, clipboards and beeping ultrasound machines point to the floating fetus's genitals, saying "It's a boy!" or, "It's a girl!"

SIXTH: Beneath her thimble-shaped belly button, partially-developed limbs kick and punch, stretching her soft skin like pizza dough.

SEVENTH: The bubble in the belly pops, oozing water down her legs as she waddles with her overnight bag to the hospital.

EIGHTH: Refusing enemas with lies of bowel movements, she screams for the anesthesiologist.

NINTH: Florescent white lights shine onto her most private parts, while nurses chant instructions to "push" and "breath."

TENTH: The baby is born; the connected umbilical cord is cut and the female's damp, deflated body separates from one person to two, from woman to mother and child.

Since my birth, our bodies have grown farther and farther apart, drifting like ships with sleeping sea captains, and yet, twenty six years after the day we separated to become mother and child, I still sometimes feel like we are joined at the belly button. When we are apart for too long, breathing becomes panting; sleeping turns to jostling and a deep hollow ache growls in the deep end of my stomach.

My conclusion is this: though the umbilical cord is cut, the woman's womb drained, the baby's clothing outgrown, the child married and moved away: the comfort found within the presence of one's mother lingers forever.