My world, and in some ways, my own being, became very small when I became your mother. The things I knew shrunk into nothingness, the parts of life I was sure about shriveled to the size of a teardrop.

When I became your mother, I went from being a Diva to being a stage hand, a mover and shaker to merely shaken. My circle of friends, my network, proudly built with thick bands of fiber optics and sweat, dissolved like cotton candy in the rain.

This is how you changed me, and changed the world.

When I became your mother, I finally learned 1,000 lessons I couldn't learn without you. The light bulb went off dozens of time in the first hour you arrived and every day there'd be another one, illuminating something so simple that I couldn't believe I had been completely blind to it before you got here.

When I became your mother, I grew so large that I pushed aside the sun and crowded the stars. My power was immense and unending, and most of the time I didn't even realize what I was capable of doing. My words carried weight beyond any president or world leader, my look could raise and fell walls all around.

When I became your mother, I was so humbled by the way you dove into life that I, who had always thought I was brave, had to build up courage to dive in after you. I learned to swim in deep waters again, where there weren't always answers, but where there would always be more questions.

When I became your mother, I moved at the speed of light, realizing that when I thought I was busy before, I truly had no clue. I was both a line and a wave, confusing both physicists and neighbors who wondered if I'd ever slow down.

When I became your mother, I ignored everything but the way your lashes rested on your cheeks, forgetting that there were calls to return, bills to send, and things to cook. I watched you sleep until you woke up from the weight of my stare, then asked me what I was doing.

Nothing, I'd say. I'm just checking on you.

That's what a woman does when she becomes a mother.