They were playing Lauryn Hill’s “The Sweetest Thing” at brunch today.
The sweetest thing I’ve ever known
Was like the kiss on the collar bone
As I recall, the song was inspired by her newborn son. He nuzzled his face as she held him–and it was a love song.
I was flipping through an old childhood album. Apparently, when I was five, I invited my mother to come to my house (in the future when I myself was a mother) to enjoy a meal instead of slaving away in the kitchen. For most of my life I assumed I’d be a mother. My friends and I would guess what our bodies would look like when we’d get pregnant–“You’d totally blow up,” “Emma’s gonna be those annoying cute compact preggo women”–I envisioned wearing a maxi dress while pregnant, feeling feminine and powerful (and I would magically have the compact pea pod belly, despite DNA). As for delivery, water birth was the only way to go. My parenting style would be firm but loving, and my children kind, creative, confident and grounded. And yes, my mother would visit often, and we would have a large sit-down meal once a week.
It’s not that I’m strongly attached to these thoughts. It’s more about the length of these assumptions. For 99% of my life, I thought I’d be a mother.
And here we are…let’s just say I confound expectations.