This time of year is insane on campus. Or, at least, it is on mine. So I've been holed up, juggling pleas, paper, projects, proofs and presentations. If I can just get through to mid-May, though, everything will ease up considerably.

In fact, if I can just get through next Tuesday, I'll be able to take a breath. And blog a little.

It's easy to tell that I'm a mom, even when Emma isn't holding my hand, perched on my hip, trailing behind me or running ahead. The contents of my purse might be a clue, with a box of raisins, a plastic ring and a toy car. The Tinkerbell sticker on the leg of my slacks might tip you off. You might get it by sitting beside me in traffic, noting the car seat, the piles of toys or the foam-and-pipe-cleaner craft hanging from my rearview mirror. I'm sometimes not allowed to leave the house without a chunky, multicolored bead bracelet or a lanyard as a necklace (the clip makes a great pretend whistle, if you didn't know).

Once, in that newborn haze, I made it all the way to work before realizing my shoes didn't match. I found my panties on inside out last week.

It might be the fact that I'm alternately humming Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead, Simon Says or Spoonful of Sugar that makes you realize. Or the paint under my nails or Play-Doh in my hair. Maybe the huge bruise on my thigh, teeth marks still clearly visible. (It was an accident, while play eating, and she's quite remorseful.) Or the burn on my finger from where the oven mitt slipped as I grabbed the cookie sheet. You might catch a glimpse of my stretch marks, mostly minor. Except for those two right in the middle of my tattoo.

The sand that lives in all of my shoes might get you there. Or the pile of collected rocks on the bookshelf in my office. In fact, if you're in my office, it'll hit you over the head, with photos, sequins, stamps and magnets.

I don't mind any of that. I'm proud to be a mom. And if you can't recognize the signs on your own, I'm pretty likely to work it into a conversation early.

But there's one signal I can't get rid of. It won't wash off, heal, vacuum away or be hidden. And it's not some sweet sparkle in my eye or smile on my lips. I found out today I may never be rid of it.

Yay, melasma. Chloasma. Mask of pregnancy.

I broke down and saw a dermatologist about the brown patches on my forehead. They showed up very early in my pregnancy and never went away, despite of what most pregnancy books or websites say. I figured they'd eventually disappear, but they haven't. (They're not nearly as bad as they could be, but they're definitely noticeable.) I even stepped up the weight of my foundation to try to hide them this spring, since folks have commented once or twice. It actually bugged me more, though, when I mentioned to a coworker, who'd started here while I was pregnant, that I was going to the doctor about it. "Oh, that?" she said. "I thought you'd always looked like that."

Uh-huh. I looked like a giraffe as a newborn.

Basically, the verdict is that I can try to bleach the spots away. But it won't necessarily work. And 15 minutes in the sun without heavy-duty sunscreen can bring them back, in full force. FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. I'm not a sun worshipper or anything, but I do like a little tan. I look healthier with it. So I get to choose between tan with gigantic freckles or a constant, super-sunscreen coating, pale with the hope that someday, if I smear enough stuff on, they'll fade.

Oh, and if I decide to try, each tube of cream will cost me $100. Because of course my insurance doesn't cover it.

I called Adam on the way home from the appointment to tell him the news that I'm likely stuck with the designs for the rest of my life.

"Well, at least Emma's worth it," he consoled me.

"It's not your face," I replied.

At least he knows me well enough to laugh.

So, after 11 years of having the option, I'm doing it. I'm giving up on a relationship with my mom.

I've wished for years that she would just fuck up royally and do something that would make it easy for me to cut all ties. (I wouldn't want her to do anything that endangered me or the ones I love, of course. Just something that would really piss me off.) But she's some sort of changed person the last few years, and I hate the person she's become. It was easier for me when she was reckless and irresponsible. Lately, she's been more stable. She took care of my ailing grandparents until they died. She's lived in one place and had one boyfriend. I'm not comfortable there or around him, but that's not really her fault.

She's some sort of martyr, off the worst of the drugs (or so she says) and trying to live right. She gets lots of credit from those around her, I suppose, for what she's doing now. But I can't get past what she did then.

She let me be abused by one husband and Jesse by another (very different forms of abuse, mind you). She never put either of us first in her life -- the men and the drugs were priority one. She placed me in amazingly violent, dangerous situations, year after year. And it turns out I can't forgive, much less forget. Truthfully, I don't really want to.

Since moving out as a freshman in college, I've tried to maintain a relationship with her. We went through a stage where I was the parent, bailing her out with money and support. We went through a stage where we were friends, drinking and drugging together. And then I refused to pay her way or party with her, and we hit this place. I married into a wonderful family, got a professional career and had a baby. She doesn't fit. She doesn't want to, and I don't want her to.

For a while, she only called when she needed something. I stopped giving, so she stopped calling. Then we struck a truce. Casual conversations a couple times a month, where she doesn't really want to hear about my life but wants to complain or get credit for hers. I'd listen, hang up and go on about my day. But every few months, there's chaos. I get dragged back into the life I've fought to escape. Or there's guilt that I'm not more involved with her and the rest of my family. I've tried to figure out what role I want them to play in Emma's life, and the truth is, none at all.

I don't deny where I came from. But just because I was stuck living that way when I was a kid doesn't mean I should expose Emma to it. And I live every day waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the late-night phone call that tells me someone is dead or in jail or on the run, in need of my help. Or for me -- or Emma or Adam -- to somehow be put in a situation that can't end well. And I'm tired of it. She hasn't ever been much of a mother to me, and she's not one now, nor a grandma to Emma. I'm ready for it all to be done.

I'm chickenshit, though. Instead of just having it out with her (as I did when I was in therapy) and telling her it's over, I'm just hoping she won't call. Last night, she did, and instead of talking to her, Adam said I wasn't home. He'd be willing to tell her off for me, I'm sure. He's waited the last nine years for this moment. But I'd rather let it die a natural death than kill it. It's that whole passive thing again.

So we'll see how it goes. I'm just going to avoid her for now, hope she gets the message. And if she doesn't, I'll be forced to give it to her personally.