Women arrive at motherhood in many ways and forms—sometimes through papers, sometimes tests, sometimes by just being in the right place for a person at the right time, but for me, motherhood came in the way of a chubby little bundle put on my chest at the close of a thirty hour labor, warm and perfect and beautiful. I remember just wanting to touch her, to look at her, to count her fingers and kiss her ears and hold her close because I had never, in my life, come so close to to the hand of creation. All I knew about my baby to that point was the way she liked to kick my ribs, that she was more active after I had ice cream, that she made me so big that even Andrew’s shirts were crop tops on me. Practically strangers, she and I, and yet I loved her helpless little body with a fierceness I could not express.
That day I fell in love with all things little.
The last seven months have been a collection of all that is little—little socks, little smiles, little fingermarks on my glasses. Little spoons now line the utensil drawer, little bath toys are strewn over the bathroom floor. Little reminders of the biggest love and she shows big excitement over the littlest things. Though motherhood is such a broad and diverse word, I think mothers of every kind are people who have learned to love the things that are little.