11 months
Of feeling vulnerable and weak and empowered and competent and incompetent and raw.
Raw hands, braiding the string of daily activities over and over, tighter and tighter: the wake ups -- I don't even register how many per night --, the feedings, the naps, the playtime. The daily routine, a dirty word we make fun of and then long for, secretly, behind the blackout curtains.
Raw guilt of not talking enough, not reading enough, not being enough. I don't know how to be present in the moment and yet this is all I have known in the past 11 months.
I remind myself to tell her that I love her. I remind myself I shouldn't have to remind myself.
11 months of keeping her close, on my breast and on my body and on my mind. She's not an affectionate person, so the closeness isn't always cuddly and soft, it's a closeness of nails in my neck and teeth on my arm.
11 months of sustaining a life with my very own body.
11 months of learning what it means to be patient. Still learning. Learning. Learning. Learning.
11 months of not knowing what to do and not knowing how to do it and doing it, anyway, day in and out, and hoping for the best.
