The juxtaposition of new motherhood.
The gentle touch of his hand on my boob.
The overwhelming overstimulation of being touched all day.
The love in his eyes being chosen as his favourite person.
The exhaustion of always being wanted.
The warmth of his little body pressed against mine in the carrier.
The sweat and drool pooling beneath him.
Knowing the intricacies of his hemangiomas.
Silent aggression to the barrage of commentary from strangers, family members, my GP and toddlers alike.
The wonder of nourishing his body from mine.
The fear it’s not enough for him.
Flashing my boobs because idfc.
Weighing my boobs multiple times a day. “Which side?”
My body birthing a human, and feeling triumphant fitting into my jeans two weeks later.
My wrists, my pelvis, my pulsing sphincter.
Thinking poopy nappies would be the hard part.
The fear that builds after 24 hours when I haven’t pooped.
The magic connection where he wakes and I wake.
Always being woken.
The hilarity that 6am used to feel early.
The familiarity of 2–4am.
Being thankful I can nap anywhere.
Developing a full-blown obsession with sleep theory.
The curl of protection during (unanticipated) co-sleeping.
Tingling fingers, frozen elbow, aching shoulder.
Smiling at him through the car mirror.
Sitting silently in the driveway for one small moment of quiet before going inside.
Eating huge quantities of food without shame.
The relentless cooking, meal planning, bottle washing, snack packing.
Minimalism meaning no longer carrying a handbag.
Packing an overnight bag for Max every time we leave the house.
Choosing cute outfits for him each day.
Keeping track of what fits, what doesn’t and what he’ll need next week.
Delighting in the smallest milestones.
The curse of comparison.
The joy of his little coos, squawks and giggles.
Phantom cries when I sneak away.
Wanting and accepting help.
Holding back from suggesting the way I know you like it.
Becoming a one-handed multitasking queen.
Pooping in an airplane bathroom while holding a baby.
The bouncing rhythm of Maxwell’s favourite musical chair.
The chair, white noise, Taylor Swift, the dishwasher and the dryer all at once.
Joining a club of badass women who can encourage with a single text.
The guilt of realising I didn’t show up for them in their postpartum days. I didn’t know how.
The community found through my phone.
The weekly screen time notification.
And the deepest juxtaposition of all:
Feeling needed in ways I never understood before.
Suddenly understanding the love of a mother.
