"Why, mommy?"

My daughter's trust in me is terrifying.  In less than two months she will be put to sleep and undergo surgery; she will emerge from her dreams in pain and looking to me for comfort.  I both yearn for and fear that moment of wakefulness.  Certainly, I want to see her alert again, to know that she is well... however I dread that unspoken question in her wide, innocent baby eyes -- "Why, mommy?"  Although my husband and I understand the necessity behind this procedure and those to come, how do we articulate that to a child barely three months old?  What will I be able to do to console her but hold her, sing to her, tell her I love her?  How do I help my child with all of the inevitable pain before her?

This is my daily fear.  This is motherhood.

I wrote to my own mom this Mother's Day, saying that I now have a far greater understanding of the simultaneous joy and pain of motherhood than I ever had before.  She agreed, stating that being a mom is like wearing your heart on your sleeve, only to have it beaten again and again, never pulling it back. 

I cherish these moments with Ella; these moments with her wide, beautiful smile lighting up our apartment.  She doesn't know any better and that breaks my heart.  She doesn't know yet that she is "different" to other people; she doesn't know yet that some might say she has any reason to think of herself as less than "beeyooteeful," as I tell her every single day because I love the grin that follows.  My daughter still possesses that priceless innocence that only young children have. 

Going to church this Sunday

In the future, other children will make fun of her. People will glance, then look again and stare.  Touch-up surgeries will follow as she grows and her face changes.  These instances may be few and far between, but when they occur, she will be hurt and cry and look at me, asking, "Why, mommy?"  These are the harsh realities of the path before my sweet little girl.  So I cherish these moments before her first pain on July 29th.  It is in these precious moments that she still looks at me with that terrifyingly unshakeable trust and beams at me when I tell her she is beautiful.  I never want these moments to pass; I want to freeze time, I never want to go into that uncertain future. 

To do so, however, is my role as a mother.  Edwin reminds me of this gently, yet consistently.  Ella needs me to be calm, reassuring, to deserve her trust always.  She needs me to tell her every day for the rest of her life how beautiful she is, even if her trust in me wavers, even if all the world tells her otherwise, even if she's hurting.  Even though it will beat my heart a thousand times over, I will always be right next to my little girl to answer her, "Why, mommy?"