Dear editor,
With all the hearts and flowers and loving sentiments issued on Mother’s Day, it has occurred to me as a mom that I wouldn’t be celebrating this special day if it weren’t for my own two kids. With this in mind, I was inspired to write the following, dedicated with love to my daughter Maya and my son Gideon, which presents Mother’s Day from a different point of view.
It seems ages that I’ve been cooped up in this small, dark, wet space. I don’t even know how I got here in the first place, but the longer I’m here, the less room I seem to have. I can hardly get around. I used to be able to stretch out, move around, punch, kick, do whatever I felt like, but I can’t anymore. I used to like it here; no one bothered me. I ate and slept whenever I wanted. I had no one to answer to. I could hear light, pleasant sounds even though I couldn’t see very well.
But now I just want to get out of here as soon as possible. I feel, after all this time, like a guest who has overstayed his welcome. I also get the feeling that if I don’t leave on my own, and soon, that somehow, I’ll be forced to go. And even while I feel this way, trying to make up my mind, I realize that the decision has already been made for me. I’m now being forced to leave this comfortable place that I’ve called home for so long.
I find myself now being pushed through a long dark tunnel, and ready or not, I’d better accept this fact, since I no longer have any say in the matter. The tunnel seems so tiny that I find myself straining with the effort of getting through, squinting into the darkness, and hoping I’ll get through safely and with no complications. I’ve never been on a journey that is taking as long as this one is through this seemingly endless tunnel. There’s no way I can turn back, and after a while, I think that I can’t wait to reach the other end after such a struggle, no matter what lies in store for me. Although I was reluctant to leave my cozy space, I’m thinking I can’t wait to get out and see what lies in wait for me at the other end.
At last, when I think I’ll never get there, I burst through the end of the tunnel into a world full of light, so bright that I need to squint, and even close my eyes for a while. I feel cool and dirty after such a long trip, but I’m lucky, because in an instant, I’m being cleaned and wrapped up so that I feel comfortable again.
And low voices all around me are whispering, “What a darling baby! It was certainly worth the nine-month wait.”
Judy Noy, Bronx, New York
