This week’s blog is written by Maria Caballero, a summer intern from North Central College in Naperville, Illinois. She is majoring in English, with an emphasis on writing, and will be spending the fall studying abroad in Canterbury, England.
On December 9th, 2010, I read the positive on the home-pregnancy test. I was eighteen and a freshman in college.
I was not overjoyed. For six weeks I cried, stressed, and worried that I could never be a good mother…and then I heard his heartbeat. Now, I cannot go thirty minutes without thinking about how much I love my little boy.
I knew that change would be unavoidable. I would never be a “normal” college kid; in fact, it was right after Jeremiah was born that I relinquished my fading dream of music education and changed my major to English. Having been a poet since middle school, I realized my passion was better executed by learning more about my craft. At the same time, I didn’t want to miss a second of my new child’s life and of the two majors, English was less time consuming and more enjoyable.
Being a mother has inspired much of my writing. I can honestly say I’ve never felt the need to express myself in eloquence more than when I’m surrounded daily by “more wawa” (water) and “’nah-na (banana) pwease.”
Unfortunately, the time rarely comes where I can sit and truly write.
As a mother, I wish I had my writing time back. I wish I had my old body back. Much of the poetry about the bond between a mother and child focuses on the perfection of the relationship, and not as much on the destruction done to a woman’s body, emotions, and hormones when a child is born. For that reason, I wrote this poem about my journey into motherhood as honestly as possible.
Battle Scars
I count my stretch marks.
…one
…three
…five
And on and on.
On my breasts, hips, thighs:
they show me who I am
and who I’ll never be again.
I was a girl.
Maybe in love with a man.
Maybe drunk.
Maybe threatened.
Unmarked.
Unsure.
I was afraid.
How could I raise a child?
What if I fail?
What if he… she… never loves me?
So I counted my stretch marks.
…one,
three,
five,
ten,
twelve…
And I ran out of time to worry.
I ran out of time to be scared.
Because there you were.
New, beautiful, perfect.
Unblemished,
covered in slick,
and totally,
unconditionally
loved.
I am marked.
Marked
by the pain that comes with pregnancy
The joy that comes with parenthood.
The worry that comes with letting go,
And the tears that came with the
First
Time
You
Cried.
So I count my stretch marks.
Thirteen strong.
Faded and puckered and unwanted and frustrating…
beautiful reminders that
no
this is not wrong.
I will not be afraid.
I will be strong and loving and protective.
I will be your mother.
And these marks are proof of my undying love for you.
