It was a Wednesday like any other: a mid-morning outing to the mall with my two-year-old. We were enjoying our new mother-daughter tradition — strolling around the shops and splitting a banana chocolate chip muffin in the food court. She ate most of it while I inhaled my caramel-flavoured coffee, content to sit for a bit and take a breath.
 
We had been in the big department store before. She loved climbing up on the couches in the shoe section and saying hello to herself in the mirror. When she suddenly darted in between the racks of women’s nightgowns, my heart stuttered. I told her to come out, to come back, but she took off.

I was pushing one of those car-shaped shopping carts where the kid pretends to drive and the mum attempts to browse in peace. It was cumbersome to turn in narrow spaces, so I simply abandoned it in the aisle, along with my purse.

I darted the way she had gone, but there was no sign of her. I was praying for her little legs to appear under the hanging shirts and pants, but there was just empty space. As every excruciating second ticked by, I felt a little more hysterical.
 
I realized we were now playing a terrifying game of hide and seek. Everything felt surreal, like I’d stepped into a TV movie. I ran by a woman and asked her if she’d seen a little girl go by. She said no, giving me an exasperated look.
 
I had heard the stories, of course, from my own mother and my mother-in-law. The times their kids had wandered away from them in public and given them a heart attack. I guess I never realized how easily it could happen. A small part of me had probably judged them, wondering how close of an eye they were really keeping on their kids.
 
Now I knew different. I hadn’t been distracted by any of the shiny wares around me. I hadn’t turned my back even for an instant. But it didn’t make any difference: she was still missing.
 
I experienced a horrible second where I imagined having to call my husband and tell him I had lost our daughter. I was on the verge of screaming for security, a description of her clothing ready on my tongue.
 
She’s wearing a pink Peppa Pig sweater dress and green leggings. Her hair is in pig tails. She’s got the most beautiful blue eyes you’ve ever seen.
 
When I found her a bit further up the aisle, safe and smiling, my world righted itself. I picked her up and hugged her too tight, overwhelmed and overjoyed at the same time. She had only been out of my sight for a couple minutes at most, but it was an eternity in the life of a mother.
 
The enormity of what could have happened lingered long after we went home and watched an episode of Bubble Guppies. I told her again and again how we only play hide and seek at home, not at the mall.
 
I wasn’t sure if she really understood what I was saying, but then she turned to me with those big eyes and said, “Mama scared. Mama sad.” And I thought maybe she did.

I remember sitting in the fertility specialist's snazzy chair and not quite comprehending what I was hearing: my baby was due on my birthday? Did this actually happen to people? 

It felt like I was winning some sort of cosmic, karmic lottery. What were the odds? What did it mean? It seemed like the ultimate gift: to share my special day with this little being I had been wanting for so long.
 
I wondered what it would be like to possess the same astrological sign as my offspring. Was Scorpio-Scorpio a good match for the parent-child relationship? Would we be able to read each other's minds, or would we drive each other nuts with our secrets and mysterious looks?
 
As my pregnancy progressed and the due date loomed large, my birthday took on a whole new meaning for me. The anticipation was all-consuming. When my fete came and went with no baby to show for it, my husband and I felt absurdly let down, like a pair of deflated balloons. 

My daughter arrived wailing and flailing three days later. I didn't care what day it was (or who I was) at that point; I was just ecstatic to be past the drudgery of 27 hours of labour. She had a full head of hair and a loud set of lungs - - what more could I ask for? 
 
Over the following year, however, I noticed a distressing new trend: whenever we visited friends and family, they didn't really see me anymore. It was all about the baby -- how she'd changed, which adorable outfit she was wearing, or who she happened to look like that week.

It took a while to get used to this strange sense of invisibility. For a while it felt like I was just part of the furniture, something insignificant loitering in the background. I realized that outwardly my entire role now seemed to revolve around my daughter's needs and wants.

People mostly seemed to acknowledge me when something had to be done, like changing her diaper or feeding her. Otherwise they were quite content to abscond with her in their arms and leave me in their wake.

I remember joking with family members, reminding them to greet me as well as the baby. Telling them how I was doing without being asked. They all laughed it off good-naturedly, but the unintentional dismissals still stung. 

Like any new mother, I was already struggling with the massive changes motherhood means for a woman's identity. Did I exist only through my baby now? Did I have anything left to offer on my own? How come no one noticed my cute dress?
 
When my daughter's first birthday rolled around, I caught myself feeling grateful that we didn't share the same special day after all. As cool as it would have been to mark our milestones together, I realized it was probably more psychologically healthy for both us to have our different days.
 
I share so much with her already -- we have the same eye colour, skin tone and shy nature. I don't want her to be confused about what we're celebrating on her special day. And it's also important that I get a moment just for myself, too. A distinct day to give kudos to my own uniqueness.
 
In the end, I'm glad the doctor got it wrong. My daughter's birthday will always be close to mine, just as her heart is always near to my heart. But this way we get our own parties.