Moms and babies are everywhere. I mean, I always saw them, but now I really see them. I see the toddlers holding onto fingers, the babies crying in the carriages, and the older kids asking questions and throwing tantrums (the last is the worse!) I also see the moms to be. The bump that is just beginning. The tummy that is full and huge, the back arched and the waddle. Oh the waddle….
I see all these mommies, some to be mommies, and some already are mommies, and some mommies that just need to not be mommies for an hour. I see them and want to meet them. Know their story, their history with their children. The more I delve into this mommy world the more I think about my own world mommy or pre mommy. I have a story. A history. I have experience, and tricks of the trade. I have funny stories, scary stories, exasperated stories. I have all these things burning inside me. I don’t meed to tatto a tree, a name, a date on my body to know that my body gave life. Nature scared me enough with life, I don’t need to add my own. The history of my time as mommy is here on me, on the tummy with the faint stretch marks, on the scar through which the doctors pulled my son to life, on the pain I feel in my hips, the ache in my back, and most visibly on the baby that is strapped to my chest. My son is here on me, with me, beside me and part of him will always be in me. We are our own history.