A mother, six months postpartum and a baby, six months.
I thought I’d be sitting here saying it was all a blur, but no. The past six months feel so palpable; How dark some nights felt, how warm she was when she arrived. The accrued energy from all that waiting.
We gave both of our girls the middle name Wild. I think it’s my favorite word. Girls aren’t meant to be tamed, don’t hold me back, and all that.
It reminds me of a forest in Oregon where we once slept in the fog. It reminds me of cold water on my open eyes; kicking out of a good wave. It reminds me of Scott riding his bike at the beach when we met. It makes me think of him taking an axe to firewood when we camp and of the stars gleaming on the frozen desert.
I can say our first daughter is already living up to everything this name has to offer. Her hair goes every way, she never wants help up, she lays her butt in the sun. I can see it in our second daughter too, but she’s put her own gentle spin on it. She’s both deer and owl. Innocent, quiet, thoughtful.
But here’s what I didn’t expect: that I’d become more wild being their mother. It’s in my body now; it’s not so rested, not so new, not so afraid. I’m a river ready to put out a fire. I’m a rabbit who hears a stick crack four blocks away. I’m also that mailman who falls asleep in his truck by the beach.
I try to tell Skip what she tells me with her eyes: we are in this together, you and me.