Nine

Pulling that many candles out of the package to place on the cake felt like a mistake. I went back for another, and then another, and then another. Nine in all. I counted back, with my actual fingers, just to make sure I had it right.
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When you bring your first born home - the one you insisted was entering into YOUR life and would adapt YOUR schedule - the universe has a cute way of serving you a slice of humble pie. A dash of colic here, a pinch of only-sleeps-in-moving-things-with-wheels there, and a heaping scoop of doesn’t-smile-at-strangers-(or anyone really)-when-you-want-her-to just for good measure.
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Nothing worthwhile comes easy, I’ve reminded myself.
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She chose me, I’ve reminded myself.
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She’s making me a mom, I’ve reminded myself.
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I’ve wished so many days done as a mom. In my exhaustion, and need for a moment to breathe my own breath, and to untether myself from anything needing me for reassurance or survival, I prayed for the sun to set quickly.
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But then one day you’ll be counting those candles, and using your fingers to double check, and thinking to yourself what a cruel joke it all is. How that old adage - the one that every mother who came before you will throw at you - about the days being long and the years being short, will suddenly mean something. But never before it’s relevant.
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I’ve wondered sometimes with her how much more I’m needed beyond being a warm body and a signature as legal guardian. The force has always been strong with this one.
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But then that night of the day you’ve counted those candles, when you’re wondering how many more days she’ll allow you to hold her hand and talk to you about her crush, she’ll ask you to lay with her as she falls asleep. And you’ll kiss her cheeks and smell her hair and you’ll remember that her soul chose you.
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And you’ll say thank you for making me a mom.