Wednesday, August 20, 2008

waxing philosphical on motherhood



I was sitting in my bed cuddling my precious boy the other day and thinking about how much I love him. One often hears from parents about the all encompassing love they feel for their children and how it is like no other love one feels. This is true. But I was thinking about why that is. I think the difference between the love we feel for a child and the love we feel for everyone else is a matter of choice. I choose to love my husband. I choose to love my step-children. I choose to love my friends. Even the love I feel for my other family members is more one of history and how well we know each other.

But the love I feel for my son is something else entirely. I have no choice but to love him. He is part of me, so if I love myself, I must love him. Except that it's even more than that because he is entirely dependent on me. He would not exist if I had not carried and birthed him. He would die if I did not feed him now. I feel that fiercely protective side of myself come out when I think of anything bad happening to him.

Because I am a step-mother I have already experienced much of what it means to be a parent with many of the highs and lows that accompany the role. But having Asher just doesn't compare. He is mine and will always be mine. I have always wanted to be a mother, and he has made me one. I truly cannot help but love him with all my heart.

7 comments:

  1. That is the most tender, intimate, and amazing thing I have ever read on motherhood. Asher is so lucky to have you as his mom.

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  2. Isn't being a mom just the best ever? After waiting so long to meet them, they really don't dissappoint, do they?

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  3. The weirdest thing for me? I NEVER had cold feet when it came to marrying my husband, I don't know if it's because divorce is so prevalent or what. But, when I got pregnant with Buttercup, I got nervous. I knew that I would never get rid of her (in a nice way). But, when she was born, I looked at her and thought, I know you! It was great.

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