Among the many things I didn’t anticipate when I embraced motherhood as a process and journey was my apprehension with referring to myself as mother. It’s been seven weeks since my consciousness has been absorbed by the post-partum demands of maternity and yet, when I speak to our child and attempt to relate myself to him I locate an awkwardness in my utterance of any and every variation of the word. Mutter, mommy, mom, mama—I’ve tested all of these syllables out on my tongue and while they seem perfectly normal to use as part of general vocabulary, they seem strange and uncanny when I attempt to have them signify this alteration/enhancement of my identity. 

It surprises me, because from the embryonic instant of conception until he was detached from my uterus, I felt sure I was already performing some of the vocational aspects of mothering. There was already a metabolic quality to my bodily existence in that his nourishment was directly attached to mine. Whatever I ingested made its way into his being through cellular-placental language. When I walked uphill and felt the pace of my heartbeat increase I was conscious of the other heart that was beating within me, in the cushioned darkness of my womb. I felt him stir, and as he grew in size his movements found expression on my belly. His kicks became visible… when he rearranged his body or had hiccups I could sense them to the point where it seemed as though it was my affliction, not his.