by STEPHANIE DOUST
My grandma turns 90 in December. To celebrate her life, the family is gathering her life into a photo album. As one of her 17 grandchildren, I, along with her 7 children, other grandchildren and 18 great-grandchildren, was requested to send in photos that can be compiled into a book.
My mum started to compile some photos on behalf of our family. She sent them through to me on email and we caught up over Skype to laugh and reminisce over them. At one point, Mum said jokingly, “There’s only ONE photo of you because you’ve only managed to produce one daughter.” I laughed along with her. It’s true. I have only one daughter.
Later that day, walking that daughter along a dog-poo infested street in a dodgy part of Brussels, I got to thinking about what Mum said. I realised it actually really, really annoyed me. I felt unseen. Disappeared in the wake of my gorgeous daughter’s presence. She didn’t mean to, but my mum had managed – in one sentence – to reduce my entire life to only one item of value: my daughter.
My daughter is precious. She’s the apple of my eye; the light of my life. Her smile breaks my heart. Her laugh makes me giggle till I cry. I don’t want to say she’s my proudest achievement- to borrow a well-used cliché. She’s not an achievement, she’s a glorious, hoped for child who happened literally on a wish and a prayer. My daughter is a blessing. I get that. But she’s not me and nor is she the sum of my life.