Sometimes, late at night, when I’m sitting in my chair, quilting or reading or watching tv, I can will her to move, this growing daughter inside of me. It will dawn on me that I have not felt her light fluttering, or (more and more) her sharp pokes, in a while. A minute after I think this, there she is, reaffirming her presence for me.

I know the idea that I am willing this to happen is the antithesis of what it means to be a parent. I know that very soon I will no longer be able to imagine that her actions have anything to do with my will, or her father’s will, or anyone’s will but her own. I don’t think of myself as a control freak, but even so, this is the scariest proposition I have ever faced.

Right now she is so much a part of me—we are tied together, literally and figuratively. I know that in a few months she will come into the world as a separate person, but right now, I can’t imagine that it is that separate person who pokes at me when I am trying to sleep. I can’t imagine what she will be like. Her father and I have wondered about the color of her hair, the color of her eyes, if she will tan like he does or burn like me. We have wondered if she will be tall. Will her legs be long or short? But the closest we can get to imagining WHO she will be is her father’s occasional wonder if she will want to hunt and fish. Beyond that we can not imagine who she will be, what her personality will hold, and how much of each of us will she carry with her. We can not begin to imagine it.

I suspect that her becoming a whole separate person will happen not at the moment she bursts forth, but rather slowly and over time. Day by day she’ll be less and less dependent and more and more herself. She’ll get her own words. She’ll learn to speak her mind. She’ll defy us. We will love every minute of it, even as we are hating it. But I wonder, will I always feel that she is a little bit tied to me still?