The child I only held in my dreams.

I've been a mother before.

I've been a mother before. I have had a child grow in my belly, and I felt them move and breathe and steal all my nutrients from me. I was there when they were born, and I raised him to the age of three—and then he was gone. Because I woke up. It was a dream. And this has happened multiple times, not consecutively—sparingly, over the years.

There's a child I have. He's a boy.

I remember when I was an undergrad, my friend—my roommate, actually—looked me in the face and said, "You look like you're going to be a boy mom."
I asked her why. She was like, "I don’t know, there's something about you—just screams no nonsense.”

On the contrary, I’m very nonsense—I make a conscious effort, daily. But she was right.

Then she said that she feels like I would be great with my sons, but I would have problems with my daughters. And immediately I rebuked it. God forbid. Because—what? No no no no no. My daughters will not go through what any female Nigerian or African child has gone through—having a complicated/bad relationship with her mother.
And to be honest, at this point, I realize it’s a global pandemic. So we’re stopping that.

But my son—I’ve always known.

It’s so crazy. 'Cause my son—even though I don’t know where he is—I have held him. I’ve felt him. The dreams were so vivid. And I could never really pick when I had them or how deeply I was sucked in.
There was a time I did three years.
There was a time it was just up until delivery.
And it’s not exactly a timeline that makes sense.
It’s spaced out. It’s time-different.

But I’ve seen him learn to walk. I got us a Christmas tree once.
Most of the time, were at the mall. And that’s how I lost him. He was running and I was running to catch up with him, and I was telling people that my son’s running toward something—I can’t see that far—and they should stop him so I can come pick him up.
But no one could hear me.
They all smiled at him but no one could hear me.
No one could see me.

I was running after him. And then he got in between people.
And then I woke up.

And I cried so heavily. My chest was tight.
'Cause I felt like something had been taken away from me. It all felt so real.

The very strange thing was that’s how I lost my mom as a kid, in an amusement park. I mean, the police found my parents eventually and reunited me with them but it felt the same.

I felt I had just gone through three years—three years involving pregnancy, the labor of the birth, and the child himself. Just to realize it was all a dream.

Which I find so interesting because a good portion of my person is apprehensive of pregnancy.
I do still think pregnancy is a gift. People all over the world are looking for, praying for children.
But I understand the complications that can be in pregnancy.
And I don’t think it makes me a bad person to understand that, as a woman, it does something to you. Irreversibly.
Physically, it is pain. Mentally too.

It does not make me a better woman because I want to bear the pain of pregnancy.
It also does not make me a selfish woman because I am concerned about the pain and the complications of pregnancy and therefore maybe, avoid it.

I know what trauma my mother went through. I’ve known people who died in labor/child birth. Some who died in pregnancy too.
So yes, I’m a little apprehensive.

But beyond pain is desire and fear shouldn’t stop you from going after what you desire. After all, human life comes from it. It’s natural.

I do admire and encourage adoption—if you are inclined to do so—understanding that you will love that child no matter what.
And that child is not an extension of yourself, even if you carry them yourself. That’s an individual who has every right to live their life as themselves. Just like you.

And of course, me being a Christian, I will always say: raise a child in the way of the Lord.
But love them—even when they don’t believe what you believe in.
Because you brought them in here without their permission and without any guarantee that they would.
You hope that they would. But there was no guarantee.

The Bible says in Ecclesiastes 4:2-3, that it is better to be among the dead than the living, and better still are those who have never been born to see the evil under the sun. So, if you choose to bring a child into this evil world, you owe them everything—they owe you nothing. And you should never make them feel like a burden.
Love is not something owed; it is something given freely.
And I believe that if you give love freely, they will give it back to you.

And that’s how I felt with my son.
I felt that I had brought this other individual into the world, and I had the privilege of watching them grow.
I was excited—until we went to the mall, and he was running, and there were people, and it was Christmas.
It’s always Christmas in these dreams. I don’t know why but someone’s playing tricks on me.

Then I lost him in the crowd.
And I woke up.

And this particular one was three years ago—actually, two.
And I remember crying. I had missed him so much.

And it’s strange to say this—but I remember what he smells like.
He smells like vanilla.
I don’t know how or why, but he smells like this perfume I used when I was a child—Body Fantasies.
As a kid, they sold it like crazy in Nigeria.
And he smelled like the vanilla of the Body Fantasies scent.

But babies are supposed to smell new, like babies.
But he smelled like my childhood. Something past.
He smelled like something familiar—not something new.
He smelled like I had always known him, like he had always been mine.

And I understand—the science shows that our eggs that we have right now were in us when we were in our mother’s womb. So basically, our children have always been with us.
They had always been with our mothers.
They had always been with our grandmothers.

But this just felt different.

In my dream, there was no before.
There was no after.
There was just him.

The child.
My child.
I would really love to meet him one day.

And don’t worry—I will have a daughter and I will probably call it quits after that.
But I’m very sure I’ll have a son.

I know what the back of his head looks like. I know the texture of his hair, I’ve felt it.
I don’t know what his face looks like.
Thank God.
I think that would haunt me even more.
Because then I’d really feel like I lost someone.

And maybe one day—just like I did to my mother when we went out to the amusement park—he will run out of my reach.
And like in my dream, I will be chasing.
Hopefully, in real life, when I ask the people around me to please help me stop that boy who wants to go explore the world—just like his mother—they will help me.

And if they don’t, well… I will surely catch up with him.

And who knows, we may run into a big Christmas tree—because they’re always so big in my dreams.
And maybe, in that moment, I will remember that I have always known the child I only held in my dreams… and now hold in real life.

Motherhood—such a desperately beautiful thing.
It breaks you, but it can rebuild you. You will lose yourself, but gain a whole new person—not the child—a whole new you.
It’s something you should want to do, not feel like you have to do.
It teaches you how to love in capacities unfathomable, if you allow yourself to learn.
'Cause not all mothers know how to love.

But there are some.
Well, there’s mine.
And how blessed I am to have her.