On Motherhood

It seems that with all the issues I have had that it has been most easy to talk about what has gone wrong, but in truth, so much of this has still been immeasurably wonderful. The hardest part for me now is finding the time - and the gray matter - to adequately describe my experience of becoming a mother.

First, I must say that I now have a deep appreciation not only for my own mother and all those women of my line, but for every mother. I now see what a deep and intense commitment it is to birth and nurture a child and how much of your own self must be subjugated to their needs. It is an awesome responsibility that is completely incomprehensible until you experience it and I feel like all I can say to my fellow mothers now is 'I get it'.

I get it that you become obsessed with your own child, their wonderousness, their utter perfection. Your child truly is the centre of the universe - I know mine is. I marvel every day at how absolutely beautiful and delicate and deeply interesting she is. I am profoundly affected by my love for her, sometimes it makes tears spring to my eyes and it fills my dreams with terrible fears - leaving her, losing her, dropping her. I cannot bear to hear her cry, even as I know she is fine and well cared for and will never remember these tears or how the carseat was uncomfortable or that sometimes I'm a little clumsy with her - still, it sends needles through my heart.

I am amazed by her tiny features, her porcelain skin and eyes like a little doll's. I love how her hair curls into fine wisps after her bath and how her little rosebud mouth forms a perfect cupid's bow with a little milkbud and a ring of opalescent white after she feeds. I love the little grunty noises she makes in the night to tell me that she's ready to get up and how when she gets very hungry she snorts like a little, mad creature and pounds my breast with her tiny, frustrated little fist. I love her little kewpie doll face when we prop her up to burp her and I still am amazed by the myriad of expressions that cross that little face within seconds of each other - eyebrows raised as if in surprise, brow furrowed in indignation or confusion, big gummy smiles that make teensy dimples in her pink cheek. I love her long, generous fingers that play piano in the air, the way she tickles the keys while she eats, the way she puts her arm over her eyes as though life is too much sometimes, how she presses her fingers to her brow as though she's thinking of a great solution. I love the clicking noises and the coos that are her first words, and when she presses wet kisses into my neck as I lay her on my shoulder. I love watching the gorgeous sweep of her eyelashes grow by the minute and the way she presses her fingers into her mouth to suck - since she was minutes old. I love to watch her sleep, arms forming a little square beside her head, her features like a painted cherub and the way she puts her two curled fists to her cheeks when she needs comfort. I love how her belly button squirms out when she is mad and hides itself when she is calm and I marvel that that once connected her to me. I love how much I love this child and I feel like the luckiest person that she has chosen me and that my becoming a mother has been to this already amazing child, that I was somehow destined to have a daughter named Nahanni. I love each day with her, whether hard or easy because I get to know her one more day. It is a singular joy that I relish, truly, madly, deeply.