The Moment

On becoming a mother

Each year, as Mother’s Day approaches, I reflect on my long and winding journey to becoming a mother to humans. Last spring, I wrote this short essay about the moment I changed forever — the moment I was overcome with a love and urge to protect so intense I thought I would explode into a million pieces.

Like all mothers, I’ve learned to navigate these powerful feelings, to somehow go about my day, every day, despite these beautiful pieces of ourselves walking around and exploring the world. We really are amazing, mamas.

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The Moment

My son cradles the small plastic container in his arms, peering down at the betta fish he just selected from the pet store shelf, a gift for having a great year in first grade.

“Are you sure you don’t want to put him in the shopping cart?” I ask.

He shakes his head vigorously. “No, it’s too shaky.”

On the way home, he clutches it in the backseat, talking softly to the vibrant green fish. The car dips into one of the many potholes on the busy road.

“There are too many bumps!” he cries. “He’s going to be scared!”

I turn around in my seat and se the fish gently fluttering its vibrant green fins. “He looks pretty peaceful to me, sweetie,” I reassure him. “I think he’ll be okay.”

I meet my husband’s eyes, and we smile. “He’s already a parent,” I say.

As I stare out the passenger window, I recall how quickly I, too, became a parent. It happened in a moment that, eight years later, remains crystal clear.

My doctor had just removed six eggs from my ovaries. Before discharge, she repeated the next steps in the IVF process, explaining the eggs would by fertilized in the lab. If at least one resulted in a viable embryo, it would go back into my uterus, and we’d all pray for implantation and a pregnancy.

I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to protect those eggs, a fierce yearning to follow them to the lab where I could provide encouragement and radiate love to help them fertilize and grow into strong embryos. I kept these emotions inside, embarrassed by their intensity.

I finally confessed to a friend. “It’s silly, right? To feel this way about microscopic cells?” I half-whispered into the phone.

“Welcome to motherhood,” she replied, then paused. “That constant worry and protective instinct never go away, but you’ll get used to it.”

As we pull into our driveway, my son audibly exhales, as though he held his breath for the entire thirty-minute ride. “How’s he doing, bud?”

“I think he’s good.” He holds up the container for a closer inspection, then sighs. “But someone should fix those roads.”

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I’m closing with this photo, taken three days before the twins arrived.

My beautiful neighbor jail broke me from my house (I was on modified bed rest) and treated me to a mani-pedi. Every moment of the five minutes it took to heave my body into the pedicure chair and lift my swollen legs was worth it. It felt divine. Despite the more than fifty pounds of water weight and PUPPP rash spread across my body (which I wouldn’t wish on anyone), I am so, so happy.