I never thought anyone would call me “Mama.” I never thought I’d deserve to be called “Mama,” because I knew I was not fit to be a mom. I got pregnant within a week of turning 20. I found out a few weeks in, after my mom realized that I was not eating well, and that this was for from normal. I attributed my weak appetite and sudden on-set of depression to the fact that I was missing my husband, and that I was about to move to a different country with him, far, far, far away from my mom. Gazing blankly at my pee stick, I knew there was something wrong. “I must have some rare disease that makes hCG levels skyrocket. Maybe I have cancer.” I went to the ER and made up some symptoms to be analyzed… Apparently, I really was pregnant. At four months, I finally went to an OB, and saw my baby for the first time. I still didn’t believe it. It just didn’t make sense to me. Even as I laid on the operating table five months later, it did not feel real to me. As I shook in anticipation during our C-section, I closed my eyes tightly and immediately opened them as wide as I could. This is how I awoke myself from scary dreams when I was little. Moments later, the scary dream became reality, and not even I could deny it. Nine months of worrying, six of throwing up, nine of struggling to gain weight, and failing, five of preparing her room, nine of crying too much, and nine of trying to wake up… All leading to just one moment. No one can tell me that she was not meant to be. She fought to exist. I was on birth control. We used condoms. We did everything to prevent something, someone, rather, that would not, could not, be stopped. She fought through a tilted uterus, through a threatened miscarriage, through starvation, and through dehydration, all just to prove me wrong. No one thought she was going to do well. Deep down inside, I knew she was a fighter, I felt it everyday. Weak babies do NOT leave bruises on mommy’s tummy, they do not keep you up for days because there is not an hour that goes by that they do not kick. I was 136 lbs. when we conceived. I was 134 lbs. the day I gave birth. She was not three pounds. Not four. Not five. She was 6 lbs. and 8.4 oz. Not too big, no, but healthy. Healthier than any doctor or any nurse, or even any other woman or mother who thinks she knows everything could ever imagine. Healthier (and heavier) than most of the babies of the women who not only told me she wouldn’t do well, but also gained more weight than I did. I worried throughout my entire pregnancy not only about her, but about myself, about my body. My thighs were huge before I got pregnant, my stomach was so flabby, and I just hated myself altogether. She fixed me. While I am not perfect now, and I do still gripe about my body, I will admit that I look much better thanks to her. I don’t feel like the same person anymore, because I am not. That has nothing to do with my body, though. I still can’t believe she calls me “Mama.” She proved me wrong, though. I AM fit to be a mother. I just am not fit to be hers, because no one so perfect deserves someone so flawed. My pictures are of 36 weeks (standing), 36 weeks (laying), 38 weeks (the day she made her grand entrance), her birth (which will always be the most beautiful picture I have seen, hands down), her first day of life, other pics of her, and my post partem pics, ranging from 3 days PP, to a few months.