My mother’s best friend, a beautiful Texan with natural blonde hair that falls down to the small of her back, always tied back elegantly in a gold barrette, has always greeted her childrens’ friends and her friends’ children thus: “Hello, Angel” or “Hello, Angel Child.”

I remember being a wee young thing and feeling so comforted by her words, thinking momentarily “Wow, am I really an angel?” and then quickly forgetting as I went to go play.

Now, as I enter month 7 with precious B, I do believe my life has been touched by an angel. Sorry. Couldn’t resist that cheesy reference. Because it’s true.

When I was preggie with B, I never thought I could fall in love with a baby again. The love I felt for the boychild was so intense. The love of a mother for her son. Fiercely protective, Oedipal, and with the intensity of discovering motherhood for the first time and the anxiety of learning how to care for a baby. My baby.

Carrying a baby in my tummy the second time around didn’t hold the same magic. The same mystery. I just wanted to get this thing out of me and get my body back. I felt lumbering and resentful that I wasn’t able to roll around on the floor with the boychild, or be close to him in the way I had been. And when I found out I was having a daughter. Well…let’s just say I was mildly petrified. With the vivid imagination I’m cursed blessed with, my mind instantly fast forwarded to my daughter as a teenager. Sneaking out the door, fingernails painted black, smoking and snogging without my permission, raging at me to let her be. Just like I was with my mother.

But now…Is it obnoxious to say just how beautiful and pure and delightful my little girl B is? There’s something so precious as a mother, to have a daughter. It’s a stunning reminder of how pure and full of joy and in the present moment I must have been as a baby. Before the neuroses set in. Hah!

My little angel

I think I really do have an angel in my life. My angel child. I vow to enjoy these years to my fullest capacity. And as for the teenage years…the dreaded goth teenage years….bring ’em on.

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