Sometimes, in the most fleeting moments of zipping up my daughter's jacket, I look at her face and wonder how I will possibly be able to mother her all of her life.
You see, when I had her, my experience of postpartum depression was one of Groundhog Day - I can't fucking do this forever so I might as well die or run away or find a way to possibly lobotomize myself with medication or booze or some substance that would dull the ache of my new reality.
How's that for a bringing home baby story?
So, now that I'm "better," I only get glimpses of this thought - this mild panic making my blood run cold: How can I possibly do this forever?
How naive we are when we get knocked up and hope for the best.
No one talks about the worst.
Like it doesn't exist.
Or, that it only exists in the shadows for shadowy women who are unfit to mother.
You realize three or four days after birth that the only lifetime commitment you've considered thus far is possibly a tattoo and maybe marriage.
The weight of your uninformed decision-making hits you like an anvil from the sky.
You feel absolutely fucked.
I've heard that happens too.
But today, looking into the perfection that is my daughter's face, I feel weary and resigned to the fact that I will be doing my level best for the remainder of my life.
For a future where she doesn't wear her childhood like a scar on her heart.