Fast
by Stephanie—Age 34— Miami, FL
It was like this; it was fast. There was a marriage, a birth, a divorce and a move. Then, before I knew anything, I was a Miamian, living the single parent/child life—day care until six, quality-time-packed weekends. My mother dated half-heartedly, deftly keeping me away from all potential dads.
Eventually, she found one, and he gave me two stepsisters and a stepbrother too. But I still lived mostly in the quiet world of only children, except during summer, and every other Christmas.
I never learned, not really, how to be a sister, how to whisper secrets late at night, how to share a childhood. I looked with longing at my friends who had the easy knowledge of another, someone with whom they shared almost everything, including DNA. As much as I read, as much as I watched, it was the one thing I would never know.
And now, thirty-four years later, I am a mother of three, three who share not only their genes but also the history of thirty-six weeks, five days in my uterus. They began sharing secrets before I even knew them; there are things they will always know that I never will.
One of the many jobs of a parent, I am learning, is to fill in all the empty spaces from your own past while fortifying the places which are whole. Figuring out where those spots are is the work; watching them smooth over is the joy. By the virtue of my struggle to have them, the four years of unwanted blood and spilled hope, I made three. As one of my students said, “G-d was making up for lost time.” More than lost time—so many things were lost. But now, so many others were found.
And now it’s like this; it is fast. They are four and a half, they tell jokes, they read books, they watch. In the half-light of their nighttime, I watch them sleep against each other. They are living the life I dreamt.
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