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Thursday, Sept. 17, 2020
6:51 p.m.
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maternity ] >>

9 weeks. I'm showing a little, belly poking out more every day, and all this talk of motherhood makes me think of my own mother, missing in action.

Again.

Always.

I dream of being those girls who have long telephone conversations with their mothers, sharing secrets, fears, truths. I dream of being the girls planning cute ways to tell their mothers they are going to be grandmothers.

My mother is a state away, still choosing abuse. Choosing racism. Choosing ignorance. And calling me divisive for refusing to suffer her choices any longer.

There is a children's book, Are You My Mother? and in the book a baby bird is separated from his mother. He spends the book asking every creature, every object he meets, are you my mother? And at the end he finds his mother and they are reunited and everyone is happy.

I hate this book.

I look for my mother in the faces of my friends, in my frantic texts asking "is this normal? what about this? what was your pregnancy like? what do you recommend?"

I look for my mother in every woman I meet.

Are you my mother?

Are you?

Because my mother wasn't.

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