“Is Mabel a real person?” the woman behind the counter asked. I had called a week before to order a custom cake. I picked out a decadent flavor and frosting combo. The only things I said was that I wanted it to say “Happy Birthday, Mabel” and for it to have carrot decorations on it.
When this woman, who I could tell was the decorator, asked if she was real, I was yet again taken aback about how to answer.
“She was,” I answered quickly with a half smile.
In the car, I relayed this exchange to Chris. A strange question, we decided. I must have said something when ordering that was a little out of the usual. Perhaps they thought I was ordering a cake for a rabbit?
“I wish I had answered differently,” I told him. “I wish I had said, “Yes, Mabel’s my daughter.” But instead I said what I said, leaving them thinking that Mabel was some 85 year-old grandmother who passed away, and isn’t it sweet that we still remember.
There’s a first time for every question. Right now I can answer “how’s the baby?” and “Do you have kids” very easily, with responses that leave me satisfied. In the beginning these questions would cause my heart to race, my face to get hot and tears to well and I’d stumble over an inadequate answer. With time I learned the replies to such inquiries that left me feeling true to my daughter. If I’m ever asked again, that strange, hear-swirling question “Is Mabel a real person?” I’ll be better prepared.
The question did come at an interesting time. It’s been a full year since she was a “real” person. Sometimes I wonder, did it all really happen? Was she really here? Here I am, 21 months out from that positive pregnancy test, eight full months of pregnancy later- the discomforts, the kicks, the ultrasounds that proved there was really a baby and yet, no gurgling baby to show for it all. It feels so unreal. My life in many ways is the same- go to work, come home, care for just myself and Chris. There are many ways I remind myself that things are different- the work changes (still not attending births), the photos that line my house of a child I once held, the stretch marks on my breasts- but I am still thrown a bit when asked “Do you have kids?” Because even though I know I am a mom in a sense, I know I had a daughter, I still feel a bit like an imposter, like I made the whole thing up.
Do you ever feel that way?