My daughter. My daughter. My. Daughter. For all the times I say it or write it, it still feels strange. I don’t feel like a mother yet. Maybe it’s because she relies on me totally, like a tamagotchi. Or a house plant. (And karma/my mother will bite me for thinking that and committing it to text.) Maybe as she grows older and begins to interact, then I’ll fully understand the weight and responsibility. Right now, my life is a whirling dervish of feeding and sleeping and the pretence that I’m a normal person who functions.
I don’t want to be one of those people who overshares. I don’t want to post non-stop pictures of my child, scattering them across the Internet for everyone to see. But she is now a (large) part of my life, and everything I do will now revolve around her in one way or another. It’s both humbling… And terrifying.
