Motherhood
You wake to a life unrecognizable to the one you inhabited yesterday. Yesterday you had time to read the paper, to stop for a latte, to watch the river water lap gently at the bank. Today you don’t have time to sleep. And just barely enough time to breathe. Milk, and diapers, and finding two thumb-sized socks, and all the life sustaining needs of another being inundate your time, sending your myriad small desires shooting out through the cracks of your life to swirl away down some drain. Yet each day those cracks are filled with a small animal body curving against your own, a chuckle impossibly big for his little body, or the adorable concoctions of new words like “moeycycle” or “helicopt.” All of the details of each day—even the exhausting ones—seal those cracks until your life possibly for the first time feels nearly whole. And the apathy and shiftlessness of yesterday along with long lonely days bead off and evaporate from this new you.
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