I hope you know

I was walking the other day. I can't quite remember where or who was with me. I may have been walking on July-hot pavement with you slung on my hip. I may have been pushing a bright blue stroller up a hill with raindrops sliding down my nose.

Or actually, I may have been perched tub-side with splash-soaked legs while you gnawed on a rubber ducky. I may have been laying on my stomach straining to rescue the red plastic triangle under the couch for the umpteenth time. I may have been debating whether to yank sweet potatoes or squash from the cabinet while simulatenously avoiding your tiny toes underneath mine. I may have been counting every eyelash while you lazily drank milk after a long nap.

It was then that I felt it. The weight of being a mother. The heaviness that is the full realization, eyes wide open, that I am entirely responsible for you. That what you see, I will have shown you. That what you say, you will have heard me speak. That what you taste, I will have fed you. That what you have felt, I will have put in your grasp.

It is a responsibility I have never known before. It is heavy only because I take it seriously.