I don't mean to romanticize motherhood or what it is to take care of a newborn. But even with the poopy diapers and spit up and getting up in the middle of the night and the ear-piercing fussiness that arises later in the day for no obvious reason, I find myself staring at her and wondering where she came from, who she is.
I wonder what she sees, what she knows, what she hears.
I wonder what's going through her mind and if she could speak right now, what she would say.
She's really here and even though I hold her, touch her, and sing to her every day, there's a part of me that doesn't quite believe it. I imagine all mothers experience this to some degree. And perhaps there's an extra layer of the surreal I contend with because our first baby was here and gone so quickly, never crossing the threshold of our front door -- sometimes it feels like I could have made up the whole thing.
But he is real, and so is she.
But she's here -- and I'm still kind of pinching myself.
