Taylor called my name at least ten times a day. Or, if she
wasn’t home, she called or texted. A crisis of epic proportions called her to
the phone. I smile thinking about how she said my name. A lot of times, she’d
call me when she felt safe. She called my name while she was in bed, worrying
sometimes, but never showing the extent of her emotions or state of mind. She worried
about beautiful hard things. Not always. Like my sister and me, she giggled a
lot with her friends when she hosted a sleepover, the best time in my life. She
liked to be held. I think it was the dark that soothed her into conversation.
She worried about the animals at a nearby circus and I
sometimes wished I hadn’t educated her about their plight, but Taylor knew how
to fight her battles one at a time. She fought for other people’s rights. She
spoke gently to them, whoever it happened to be. When she called me to her at
night, even until she was 22, she wanted to be held. The visceral connection of
mother to daughter and the devotion and struggle we shared…so many parts of us
wove together and I felt as if my heart grew two sizes bigger when she held me.
Sometimes, she’d tell me about a dog WE needed to go find again because she
couldn’t catch it.
She called my name when she felt safe in the shower, too.
Maybe the curtain between us, the excitement she felt at going to a carnival,
the mall, or if in crisis, Taco Bell or Buffalo Wild Wings. I never did
convince her to eat vegan. She chose her battles, I thought. I feel like I was
suspended when she talked to me. I didn’t want to move. She told me funny stories
about her friends and family members. It was like news hour. She didn’t speak
negatively about them; she and I shared a love for our gang of miscreants. She told
me about a person who needed help or needed a phone call. Her loyalty gave her
authority and power and she showed love with a hug, a tiny smile, and a kick in
the pants.
I turned off my ringer at night because she would be in an
area with people who were not healthy, and some crisis would occur, usually a
traffic violation or something minor. If you ask her about the people she could
have avoided, she said they needed her. Taylor was right. We needed her.
When she was born at 9:05am on June 23, 1993 Taylor brought
with her a tiny face surrounded by thick, soft and dark hair. 4 pounds, 11
ounces and 21 inches long. She arrived into the world in protest of the light
and cold. I’m sure she was hungry. She cried, I cried, her dad cried, the
nurses laid her on my body, no clothes, just physical touch and quiet. Taylor
Nicole fell asleep with the sound of my voice.
I dutifully returned to full-time work and after three very
short weeks, I vowed to sell whatever necessary because I decided to raise my
child. I am grateful to have been supported in raising her and her brother.
They benefitted immensely from support systems and unconditional love. But, Taylor
experienced crying spells earlier than normal colicky babies. She was
overwhelmed by too much movement or stimulation. Rocking her, patting her,
singing to her with the lights on could not happen and Taylor mostly napped in
some lucky soul’s arms. But, she needed me then too. I didn’t want to work
full-time and the crying became a problem and it seemed as if I calmed her.
When she was about two years old, her dad and I watched her
scream under the coffee table where it was safe, I assume. She screamed at 6pm
and it usually lasted for about a half hour. Although hard to watch, and
doctors who tried but couldn’t’ determine any issues. So, naturally Taylor
talked early enough. She also frequently stated, “I miss my mom.”
I remember that she didn’t want me to see her smile. Often,
her cousins and friends descended upon the house and she hid her smile. But, if
there was a single problem, question, request, “Mom!” I don’t know what it
feels like to win an award but hearing her call my name was my favorite sound
in the world.
