True

Not all of my babies came from planes.

Like this one, for instance. She was homegrown.

She was born in deep, deep, incredibly cold winter, late in the afternoon, after a long day of fits and starts, and frantic remembering of what the natural childbirth teacher had told us. I couldn’t be the person I envisioned myself being so I asked for drugs to block the pain but the nurse said it was too late, the drugs wouldn’t help anymore, but they gave them to me anyway and so I ended up being unintentionally brave.

The recovery room was very dark with just a few soft lights, the nurse coming silently in to check me and then coming with a bundle she laid on my chest. My baby. She was bright and swaddled and adorned with a necklace with my name on it lest she be confused with the neighbor lady’s baby.

What I remember is holding her for the first time and looking at the window frosted because of the bitter cold, decorated like stained white glass, if I reached for it I would feel the complete frozen cold. It would melt if I touched it but I didn’t. I just held her and looked at how cold the rest of the world was.

The word that I thought that night but never formed in my head until this moment is enduring. Other people that I loved or loved me might come and go but we would be enduring. We would be permanent. I might be many other things in my life but I would always be her mother and she would always be my child.

As it turned out, my forecast was true. Enduring was an apt concept. It is the truest thing I know.