She had never wanted children until she began having dreams about a little blonde girl, the details so clear she would wake feeling empty and confused, bereft of the presence of this vibrant stranger who she felt she knew somehow.

It was late autumn in Vancouver and she woke with a start, earlier than she would have liked. It was still dark out and the small window above the clock on the dresser was open. Rain was coming in at a sharp angle drenching the pale yellow curtain that flapped and twisted in the breeze.

She jumped out of bed, shivering, to close the window and latch it in place. She had grown accustomed to leaving the window open all summer, but those days were clearly over.

The other side of the bed was already empty, her husband rising before dawn to deliver the mail. He never woke her as he dressed in the dark and made himself coffee, quietly reading the paper or doing some stretches before leaving the house.

She pulled on a flannel robe and grudgingly started her morning ritual of coffee and toast, reading the paper her husband had left folded neatly on the kitchen table, a little earlier than she would have liked.

She liked to get up early but rarely before sunrise, which was coming later and later every day. The warm sunny weather that it made her fall in love with Vancouver was quickly fading into the cold, dreary, rainy winter she’d been dreading.

Dreams and visitations

The dreams had started in the summer and it was always impossible to fall back to sleep with the fragments and visions so fresh in her mind. The little blonde girl with the eyes of a wise old woman. She appeared over and over, at different ages and stages of life, but always immediately recognizable.

The presence of this girl was clearly something foreign to her dream world, an independent identity with a will of her own. As soon as she made this observation, she knew that communication had to be attempted. She asked the girl “who are you? How can I help you?” When the answer came it was both obvious and shocking. This little girl, this powerful spirit, had chosen her to be her mother.

She tried to explain that it was impossible. Doctors had given her a diagnosis a year earlier that she would never be able to have children on her own. She had been disappointed and angry with the medical institutions that were so careless with women's bodies and the hazardous side effects of birth control methods at the time, but she told herself she’d never really wanted children anyway.

Now this determined little spirit was asking to be born, actually demanding that she somehow make it happen, utterly unimpressed with medical facts. The visits were coming almost nightly and she found herself apologizing, telling the girl she would have to find someone else. It broke her heart to look into those deep blue eyes, eyes that felt so familiar, and disappoint her, but she didn't know what else to say.

Birthday wish

As late November cold wrapped itself around their Kitsilano home, she sat cross-legged on the living room shag carpet across from her mother as her husband and step-father talked in the kitchen. That evening as they exchanged gifts (both women shared a birthday), she told her mother about her dreams.

Her mother was as comforting as she could be, just as her husband had been when she told him, but neither could offer any advice other than, "maybe the doctors were wrong?" They had been trying for months since the dreams started, but every month brought renewed disappointment and a growing despair.

The two men emerged from the kitchen, switching the living room light off and both women looked up as the room fell into darkness, illuminated only by the flaming aura of candles atop a pale cheesecake. She closed her eyes before sharing a meaningful look with her mother, and they both made the same wish.

Auspicious beginning

Nine months and one day later, she lay exhausted but exhilarated in the St. Paul's Hospital maternity ward, wondering what was taking the nurses so long. She had gone into labor early in the morning, awakening in a panic but soothed by her husband's voice and steady calm as he executed their plan, helping her on with her shoes and coaching her through breathing exercises as he packed a bag, then ushered her to the car.

When the nurse finally reappeared, a bundle of faded yellow, blue and pink plaid tucked in her arms, she had to stifle a smirk. She had asked that her daughter be wrapped in anything other than the standard pink that was used to label girls as such, determined that this was only the first of many old-fashioned, sexist traditions that her baby would not be subjected to.

The nurse had been accommodating, though probably muttered under her breath about crazy hippies and how she was supposed to find a baby blanket in this hospital that wasn't pink or blue.

The small red face that poked out from between the folds of the plaid blanket was wrinkled and grimly focused on something of crucial importance even in sleep. What set her apart from the other babies, however, was what looked like a "Z" etched in her forehead, like the Mark of Zorro. It almost made her mother laugh out loud.

"Don't worry," she whispered to her daughter, kissing the mark. "That’s going to fade, and you're going to be so beautiful." She closed her eyes, at peace for the first time in over a year, before falling into a deep sleep, once again dreaming her own dreams.

Happy Mother's day, everyone!

And thank you in particular to my mother, for giving me such an epic origin story, the first of many incredible gifts over all these years. I love you infinity!