Late Friday night, I sat rocking my sad teething little baby in the dark. She was feverish, naked and whimpering, her little body curled up tight against my skin. Her hand stroked my shoulder repetitively as I rocked and sang to her. Her smell was sticky sweet and her face in the moonlight looked (for once) like mine.
It's a strange thing indeed to see your own face reflected in your child. I often note family resemblances in others and think nothing of it. Of course children should look like their parents. But it is strange indeed to see your own face, softer and rounder perhaps, in the features of this little being who you love beyond all telling.
There is a disconnect. I haven't yet learned quite how to love and accept myself, yet here is this child who I love and accept unconditionally. I am fallible and imperfect, I know all of my faults, all of my defects. And yet, once, my mother must have sat and rocked me, kissed my feverish brow, and loved me beyond all telling.
Return of the Book Review
4 days ago