I absolutely love holding my daughters hand. I don't think I will ever get tired of it. Even when it is no longer the tiniest, cutest thing on the planet. 

It is amazing how seeing another roll of fat can be so rewarding. 

The only thing that keeps me (even remotely close to) a loving, patient parent when she fusses and cries is remembering: however much I am bothered, she is bothered more. There is something really wrong in her world, and she has no other way to tell me. Seems obvious, but it is unbelievable the temptation to blame her for making my life difficult. I feel so selfish and ashamed writing that. 

I love the way my body responds to her. Even in the stressful moments, it reminds me how there is no question: this beautiful angel is my very own daughter. My love literally flows from me to her.

I never expected the physicality of motherhood. My arms, my back, my neck, my head, my nipples, my breasts...all worked over, all sore. And, infections festering in my uterus. Motherhood is demanding. 

Maybe I am taking a too rational approach to parenting. I keep trying to solve the riddle of my daughter. Find the reason for her behavior. Find the recipe for a good nights sleep. Break down the day into cause and effect and learn from that, expecting to be able to repeat successes if I just repeat the steps. I'm thinking now this might not be the most fitting approach. But then, what is? 

Distance

 She is of me, yet she isn't me. She still feels like an extension if myself. Since she was conceived, the distance between where I end and she begins has only gotten greater. I know this will only grow. This is wonderful and sad.