There’s a kind of newborn love which is utterly wild to me. The love arrives with the infant, taking up space in your heart you didn’t know was there. I stare at my baby in total adoration. I am enamored with everything about her. The tiny features. The tender nature of how delicate and needy she is, yet how quickly she is growing in size and movements. The coos, squeaks, and grunts. The smiles which are delighted by light and motion.

As I drove away, an image of my grandpa Juan came to mind. His livelihood had been growing and selling produce, such as sandia (watermelon). He too had a beard of white stubble, one which contrasted with his dark skin. I have memories of visiting grandpa Juan at a flea market, his large, canvas-covered truck bed filled with ripe watermelons. Although we didn’t get to see him very often, and although his Spanglish was sometimes tricky for my siblings and I to understand, he was always happy to see us. A generous smile would unfold from his face and he’d call out, “Mijos! Mijas!” (my sons, my daughters).

Hair mussed

Sleep still slipping

from the corners of my eyes

Coffee piping

Rain chilly, pattering on the tin roof

of the first home which is fully ours.

Throughout my day, so often it becomes part of the normal rhythm of motherhood, it’s easy to be prodded by small worries about my young son, Ocean.

“Has he eaten enough? Is he hot or cold? On track developmentally? Sleeping enough? Well-stimulated?”

Many of these worries are vital to his care and are easily remedied or assured. Yet there will always be times I worry in vain. I imagine the worst, only to be surprised by the best.

Most mornings, I put my toddler, Ocean, into the jogging stroller and take him for a walk or run. Normally a bundle of rambunctious energy, on our walks Ocean enjoys just looking around and taking in the morning air, often with one foot popped up on the front railing.

Rain folded the frozen earth in her arms, said

“Let me embrace you awhile. Let us transform.”

A world hard as geode, scintillating. 

Glassy overcoats of ice for all the trees

Lovely changelings, till the branches, with dismay, 

Succumbed: the new weight pulling, cracking, crashing.

Once, while I was still single, I sat down and wrote an open letter to my friends who were married, titling the letter “Rickshaws Have Three Wheels And They Work Just Fine”. I had become a little sad and hurt and frustrated by the comments of a couple of friends whom I saw less and less. Each claimed she didn’t want me to feel like a third wheel when it was her, her husband, and me hanging out. Each also said she didn’t want to drag me into the chaos of her life with young kids. In the letter, I laid out what I’d tried to tell them when we did see each other: I enjoyed seeing their kids, and didn’t feel like a third wheel. I just liked their company, no matter who else was around, and was in fact a bit honored to be allowed into the chaos of everyday life.

IIt was raining when I left the office on my last day of work. The power had flickered off for a brief instant, giving everyone a thrilling startle in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. At the back entrance, I chuckled with the guard about the automatic doors not working due to the outage as we pushed open the manual ones instead. In my arms I carried a box with the remains of my goodbye cake - almond mocha - and a bag of assorted desk items. Among the items was my office name plate; silver metal printed with my maiden name.

“Maybe one day I’ll show this to my son, and he’ll be interested to hear about his Mama’s life before he was born,” I told my boss. It’s the kind of thing I would have been curious about. You grow up thinking of your parents as your parents, an identity which feels all-encompassing. It’s strange to put any other name for them in your mouth, like something which doesn’t taste quite right, and stranger still to think of your mother as someone with an entirely different last name than the one she has now.