"What, you forgot my birthday's coming up??" he said a few days ago. I might have said out loud, half-jokingly, "Of course not! How can I forget the 13th anniversary of that traumatizing experience when they tied my wrists on a cold operating table and sliced me open to pull you out?" He might have said, "You're mean, Mommy." I might have said, "Oh but I love you, Kuya!" And I do. I love my children. I celebrate with pride and wonder and awe every year that they grow older. I celebrate every day. But these stories of motherhood, I can't silence or sanitize them. They are mine to tell.
I've been thinking of what it's like to be successful -- and what success means. I've been having to revise this definition over and over again. Maybe I have a problem with success and I should just admit this. I'm never sure. And successful people always seem sure. I like doubt and doubting. Maybe I am only truly wired when I am on the brink of failure. Maybe I have a problem with claiming what is mine because I am afraid it will be taken away.