Unfinished

I want to write about her — me and her, Papa and her, all three of us and this raw, threshold-pushing experience of mothering and life after birth. But by the time I find the space to put my words down, they lose their shape. She evolves so damn quickly, forcing us — and my words, my language — to change just to keep up.

For now, she’s learning to say my name. Not Lily. Mama. Mama. Mama. Sometimes, she says it like it’s the only word she’ll ever need to know. Like it’s the start of all sentences, all stories. Other times, she says it like she’s tired of her tongue only knowing this one, small word. 

But soon — maybe in a month, a week, the end of the morning, or the end of this sentence — she’ll push her lips together and uncover the letter ‘P’. She’ll call for Papa instead of me — or she’ll claim her name as her own.

It’s tender and magnificent witnessing her evolution — into herself and away from Mama, Mama, Mama. But as she expands and wanders further from me, I’m left with fragments of myself to reclaim and reconsider.

When I find the time, I turn each fragment over in my hand, just as she does when she discovers a new leaf or piece of fluff, and I examine it. Does the fragment still belong to this woman known as Lily and Mama? Do I have time to answer this now or do I wait for her to flee the nest before I can really reconsider myself again? 

I pull out my phone to tap my thoughts down, but she wakes from her nap — my words, my thoughts, myself left unfinished…

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Lily x