The day I became a mom was not the day my daughter was born， but seven years later. Up until that day， I had been too busy trying to survive my abusive marriage. I had spent all my energy trying to run a “perfect” home， and I didn’t see that my baby girl had become a toddler. I’d tried endlessly to please someone who could never be pleased and suddenly realized that the years had slipped by and could never be recaptured.
　　Oh， I had done the normal “motherly” things， like making sure my daughter got to ballet and tap and gym lessons. I went to all of her recitals and school concerts， parent－teacher conferences and open houses—alone. I ran interference during my husband’s rages when something was spilled at the dinner table， telling her， “It will be okay， Honey. Daddy’s not really mad at you.” I did all I could to protect her from hearing the awful shouting and accusations after he returned from a night of drinking. Finally I did the best thing I could do for my daughter and myself； I removed us from the home that wasn’t really a home at all.
　　That day I became a mom was the day my daughter and I were sitting in our new home having a calm， quiet dinner just as I had always wanted for her. We were talking about what she had done in school and suddenly her little hand knocked over the full glass of chocolate milk. As I watched the white tablecloth and freshly painted white wall become dark brown， I looked at her small face. It was filled with fear， knowing what the outcome of the event would have meant only a week before in her father’s presence. When I saw that look on her face and looked at the chocolate milk running down the wall， I simply started laughing. I am sure she thought I was crazy， but then she must have realized that I was thinking， “It’s a good thing your father isn’t here！” She started laughing with me， and we laughed until we cried. They were tears of joy and peace and were the first of many tears that we cried together. That was the day we knew that we were going to be okay.
　　Whenever either of us spills something， even now， seventeen years later， she says， “Remember the day I spilled the chocolate milk? I knew that day that you had done the right thing for us， and I will never forget it.”
　　That was the day I really became a mom. I discovered that being a mom isn’t only going to ballet， and tap and gym recitals， and attending every school concert and open house. It isn’t keeping a spotless house and preparing perfect meals. It certainly isn’t pretending things are normal when they are not. For me， being a mom started when I could laugh over spilled milk.
　　
　　我成为一个真正的母亲的日子不是我女儿的生日,而是七年之后｡在那之前,我一直忙着拯救自己不尽理想的婚姻｡我殚精竭虑,只为成就一个“看似完美的”家,甚至不曾留意宝贝女儿已开始蹒跚学步｡为了取悦永远不可能高兴起来的人,我不停地作着尝试,如今才猛觉岁月已匆匆滑过,永不复还｡
　　哦,我做了常规的“妈妈应做的”事情,比如一定要让女儿学芭蕾､踢踏舞和体操课｡我参加了她所有的演奏会､校园音乐会､家长会和家庭招待会——都是独自一人｡当有东西洒在饭桌上令我的丈夫暴怒时,我总是从中调解,告诉女儿说,“亲爱的,都会好的｡爸爸并不是在对你发脾气｡”在我丈夫喝了一晚上酒回家之后,我竭尽所能地不让她听到那些可怕的吼叫和谴责｡终于有一天,我作了对我和女儿都是最好的选择:我带她一块儿搬出了家,那个已经不再像家的地方｡
　　在我成为一个真正的母亲那天,我和女儿正坐在新家里,享受一顿平和安静的晚餐,这正是我想给她的｡我们谈了谈她在学校里的情况,突然,她的小手打翻了一整瓶巧克力奶｡我眼睁睁地看着洁白的桌布和刚漆的白墙变成了深棕色,随后目光停留在女儿的小脸上｡那是一张充满恐惧的脸,因为她知道这个过失将意味着回到仅仅一周前爸爸在场时的情形｡我看着女儿的表情和那流向墙壁的巧克力奶,只是笑了笑｡我敢肯定她觉得我疯了,但是她马上就意识到我在想,“你爸不在这儿是件好事儿｡”她开始和我一块儿笑了起来,我们笑着笑着,不禁哭了出来｡那是欢快的泪水,平静的泪水,是我们第一次一同哭泣的泪水｡就在那天,我们知道,我们的相处将会很好｡
　　无论何时,不论谁弄洒了东西,即使是十七年后的现在,女儿仍会说:“记得那天我打翻了巧克力奶吗?我想,那天你做得很对,我永远都不会忘记｡”
　　那天,我才成为了一个真正的母亲｡我发现,作为一个母亲,不应只是去观看芭蕾､踢踏舞或是体操表演,不应只是参加每次校园音乐会和家庭招待会,也不是保持一个完美无暇的家,准备美味佳肴｡当然,更不是假装所有的事情都正常无奇,而事实上却并非如此｡对我而言,成为一个真正的母亲始于面对弄洒的牛奶,也能面带笑容｡
　　陈丽华／选译