There are times when I don’t feel grown up enough to be a parent. When I feel like my brain is rushing to catch up to the life that I’ve created for it. That feeling was there when we left the hospital with a baby, it’s there every time somebody introduces me as Bingo’s mom, and it’s there when I look around my house- every room scattered with toys- and think, “It looks like a kid lives here.”
I feel like I’m faking it.
But then my feverish baby calls for me over the monitor: “Mummy!” And I take her temperature, and give her medicine, and worry a little but not too much. This is the fifteenth fever, after all, not the first. I sit rocking with her in the dark, one of her small fever hot hands curled around my collar, and I don’t feel like I’m faking it anymore.
How can I, really? Knowing that, to her, Sea and I are everything. We’re not pretend parents, we’re not unsure parents, we’re not people pretending to be adults. We’re just her parents: the only ones she’s got. To her, we are enough.
Bingo is asleep again. She breathes deeply in my arms, but still moves fitfully: the fever isn’t gone yet. So I keep rocking her. And in this dark room, in this moment, I feel it too: we are enough.