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Taylor’s Time

Back with our resident Guest Author, Taylor Anne Vigil, and today she has an intensely personal post for you.

This is one of the qualities I appreciate about her. She’s willing to not only take risks with her writing, speaking out about the Saudi abuses of Raif Badawi, but she’s willing to put herself out there for the world to see.

I hope you enjoy this glimpse into her heart.

I have that “Mama” urge again. I first felt the urge when I was 14 years old, after volunteering for my school’s after-school program. We provided care for the little ones when their parents worked late into the day. As soon as I saw the children playing, squealing with laughter and smiling, I knew right then and there I wanted to be a mother. I also knew that age 14 was not the time to act on that urge.

As the child of a teen mother, I saw firsthand how challenging it was for my own mother to raise me at such a young and vulnerable age. Though she did her best to give me the easiest life possible, it was still a hard one. I won’t, can’t, say we regret our life now. On the contrary, we have a wonderful life, a beautiful life, but getting here wasn’t easy.

And so I waited. Here I am, 10 years later, still waiting. I wait more for my child’s sake than my own. I can’t bear the thought of my son or daughter suffering for my mistakes, can’t bear the thought of them suffering as I did. I didn’t have an unhappy childhood, not at all. No matter where I was, I was surrounded by family, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents. At the same time, some of the most difficult times of my life were experienced as a child. Money was tight and my mother struggled to find herself. As a result, we moved from city to city, from school to school, from house to house, more frequently than I would’ve liked. I lost family and friends during those moves and in time, I began fearing that things would be taken away from me before I had the chance to really enjoy them. Today, however, I increasingly find myself appreciating those moves because the more we moved the more I was exposed to. Over the years I have come to accept everyone, no matter their race, religion, or sexual orientation. I can easily adapt to any sort of household environment. Today, I rarely ever find myself wishing that things went differently than they did.

Despite the waiting, because of the waiting, the urge to be a mother is stronger than it’s ever been. I often imagine my children. I wonder who they might look like, if they will be the reflection of me, as I reflect my mother, or if they will look more like my beloved, whoever he may be. Anyone who knows me knows I’ve always wanted a son. On days like these, where my “Mama” urge is so strong that I could break down and weep, I sit and wonder if my son will inherit my double jointed fingers or my hazel eyes. I wonder if he’ll have my auburn hair, if it will be straight or curly, thin or thick, if his skin will be pasty and white or olive and dark. Through all the questions, though, one thing I never wonder about is his name. Zahir is what I have chosen to call him. Zahir; my blooming flower, my shining light. 

As I wait, I write. I write about mothers and their children. I see the stories through a mother’s eyes and suddenly their little ones become mine. I feel a sense of pride as I watch them grow with every turn of a page. I feel the pain, the helplessness, when they get hurt. I feel the joy of their birth. And still, I wait.

I can’t say I’d reject a daughter. In fact, the name for my little girl came to me long before the name for my little boy. Clarity is what I will call her. Clarity; the one who makes things clear. My beautiful Clarity and my precious Zahir are always on my mind at these times. Again, I sit and wonder what my little ones will look like, who they will be, and how they will help the world. There is one thing that I hardly ever wonder about, one thing that I am sure of; I love my children now, I will love them when they get here and I will love them long after I am sent home to my heavenly father.

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