I never expected to be a mother. I was 46 when she was born, and I spent 21 days in the hospital. Our first year was one of isolation, exhaustion, gratitude, and confusion. We had to get to know each other. I missed those first cocoon days together, and I felt like I was always catching up. I didn’t know then that motherhood is exactly that.
We put her in daycare two days a week after her first birthday. I felt guilty when I wasn’t with her, and I felt guilty when I wasn’t working; I wasn’t fully present for either. The shelter-in-place order changed everything. We were back to those early days, but this time I was head over heels in love with her.
I was also terrified for us, and my heart was breaking for those who suffered. I woke up every morning filled with dread. We started making pictures as a way to pass the hours. These are the only times I am completely in the moment, not worried or anxious. I look for magic and escape. The in-between times, the tender grasp of her hand, a wet curl on her perfect skin: All of this I want to hold in my heart. I think of the love I want to remember, and I try to experience this strange new world through her eyes.
She knows that we are creating something together. She lets me hover with a camera. She composes scenes, moves equipment around. She paints on herself more than the paper. I have little control over how long we shoot or what happens during. We give each other what we can. She is becoming her own person, and that is my greatest joy as her mother. I grieve for the children and mothers who are losing each other in this pandemic, and I hold her tighter. We will celebrate all of us this Mother’s Day.
