Wash

As with all new parents, I was so consumed by the responsibilities of parenting and often felt like I was blundering my way through, never on top of anything. I felt disheveled, unprepared and messy. I rarely felt organized or ahead of the game at all and I often described the whole experience as improvisation, responding to my baby’s needs from moment to moment as best as I could at the time.

My gaze was always so micro – I was entranced by her gorgeous face, eyelashes, nose, fingers and toes, all the tiny details. My hands intertwined with her hands, my body covered in her body, her face squashed and latched to my breast. Always so close to me, all over me, all the time. I rarely felt separate from her, or from this all-consuming relationship, or from this mode of being…

…Except for one little ritual that emerged and stayed for many months. Looking in the mirror before her bath time. Seeing myself, observing, noticing. Outside of my inner-experience, looking at us as though I was separate from the situation. It was so refreshing, a moment of seeing clearly in this experience where I so often felt like I was blindfolded and fumbling. I found it grounding to witness myself in the act of mothering.

There I was, that was me in the mirror, my familiar face, tired and frazzled, but there I was.

Sometimes if I felt up to it, I would look at my eyes, really look deep into them and be with whatever seemed to be there. And I would look at my baby in my arms, staring at her own reflection, reaching out to touch it. Laughing when we interacted with each other and our second selves. Such joy! Look at us!

There we were together, mother and child. In relationship.
Skin to skin. Soft and beautiful.