The Measuring Stick

I constantly asked questions: How long? How much? How far? How late? I loved collecting data — trying to gather enough points so I could make sense of the world. I even graduated with a degree in mathematics.

For years, my obsession with quantifying my world served me well. Then I got married and had children. I carry the same old measuring equipment, but no matter how hard I try, it never adds up. There is no magic number to tell me how many hugs and kisses I need to give my daughter or how many times to tell her I love her. Or how many times I can lose my temper and not be called a bad mommy. There is no gauge that indicates whether I’m giving my newborn what he needs.

But still, I count and count. I count the night wakings, and meticulously measure what’s left in his bottles. How many wet diapers. How much weight she gained. I grasp onto any data I can gather, and when the numbers don’t add up, I collapse. My daughter stops growing at four months, and my world disintegrates. From then on, I study their growth charts obsessively, although my babies are so petite that they didn’t even feature on the curve.

Aha, my inner mathematician declares. Finally, there it is in black and white—the proof. I have failed. This crucial job I have — to feed them so they can grow — I have failed. But my sweet babies, they defy me. They are small but perfect. They reach their milestones, they smile and giggle and crawl and walk. But still I cannot relinquish my calculator or abandon my weights.