"You haven't needed to change her diaper yet?" The nurse asked.
"What do you mean? Doesn't a nurse change it?" I asked back.
"No. She's your baby, you change the diaper. Then mark it here on this chart."
At that moment, I realized that having a baby was a real thing. That I really was someone's mother, responsible for her little life. I was now responsible for making sure she ate enough and slept enough, had pajamas and clean clothes for school. I needed to read to her every night to make sure she became literate and count all her little piggies so she'd be - what? Number-literate? I would have to increase my vocabulary so I could tell her all that she needed to know. I had to make sure she learned to walk and brush her teeth. I would have to teach her to look before she crossed the street and stop-drop-and-roll if she was ever in a fire. It was my duty to teach her how to scramble eggs, make a perfect pot of rice, and grill round pancakes. We would have to figure out how to braid or blow-dry or flat-iron and how to choose the right color lipstick. There would be driving lessons and college applications. But first, I had to figure out which was the front of this diaper.
At that moment, I realized that I had no clue what I was doing and became nervous that I would never really figure it out and do this thing right. I prayed to God, don't ever leave me, don't let me raise this girl without your constant watch.
And now, fifteen years and four children later. I still feel the same way. And I pray the same thing. And still hope that they all turn out alright.
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