Chicken Baby Poop

My mom can still remember clearly my first day of school: "You were so sad because someone called you chicken baby poop. I was upset, your dad was upset - it was our first taste of the real world touching our smiling little girl."

I've always laughed -albeit gently - at the story, wondering just how the innocuous phrase "chicken baby poop" could have sent a 4 year-old and her parents into a tizzy. Aren't there worse things in the world? (In fact, of all the insults I've encountered in my life, "chicken baby poop" seems almost cute.)

Yet today, as a brand new mom of a five month old little girl, I am beginning to understand how my mom must have felt when her pigtailed preschooler came home in tears. My daughter smiles with such complete abandon and unabashed joy that my heart breaks a little each time she babbles in my direction. And I know, fiercely know, that I would break someone in two for introducing even a hint of cruelty or judgment into her innocent experience. Intellectually, I understand that we cannot keep her from the world and I already know that my spirited imp of a daughter will gladly tackle all that life brings her way. (How is it possible for an infant to have so many opinions?) But to see the trust and wonder so clearly in her eyes...yes, I would do just about anything to keep them there forever. The first child to call her "chicken baby poop" doesn't have a prayer against this mama bear.

I wasn't emotionally scarred by my first day of school. If it weren't for my mom's story, I wouldn't have a memory at all of that encounter. And yet, "chicken baby poop" seems to be an appropriate theme for this particular time in my life. Not only because poop seems to govern most of my waking moments (pre-baby, my husband and I never imagined that so much adult conversation could center on poop) but also because it's time to stop being "chicken" about some aspects of my life. Motherhood does many things, not the least of which is stripping a woman to her core. Never have I felt so vulnerable or exposed. Never have I felt so inadequate or inexperienced. Never have I felt such fear, worry or uncertainty. Never have I felt so powerful.

Because now, it's not all about me.

There's a little girl watching and she deserves a mom who lives as she teaches. If I want her to be strong, independent and passionate, I need to be the model my mom has always given me. I've coached girls cross country for years but have been hesitant to do much racing in my adult life. Perhaps it's time to strap on the shoes, set an earlier alarm and face the watch. Maybe I can cross that marathon finish line to face a cheering, chubby face in her stroller. Perhaps it's time for this high school English teacher to step out of her comfort zone and let her fingers do the talking, sending her words out there in the world without fear of the response. If I want my daughter to value her voice, her mom needs to start sharing her own.

Perhaps it's time to drop the "used to" tag I tend to overuse, ("I used to race," "We used to travel," "I used to have so much to show for my day," "I used to fit in those jeans") and embrace an active verb like "am."

I used to be called "chicken baby poop." Now I am Mom.