I am still rocking. Side to side. At the counter, at the sink, mid-sentence with Roman. She is not in my arms. The body does not care.
The fourth trimester is over. I feel somewhat normal. Somewhat is doing the work.
The mornings are not the same. I wake up next to her eyes. I smile before I am awake. I feed her. The rest of the routine has folded itself into one hand. I crack the egg one-handed. I fold the omelette. I refill the kettle. The other hand is hers.
The nights are not the same either. I talk to my mother almost every day. Sometimes twice. We have never spoken this much in our lives. She lives in another country. She is closer than she has ever been.
I thought normal would mean returning. It does not. What is happening is more like installation. Embedded functions, going in under the skin. The rocking. The one-handed gestures. The way my eyes go to her eyes before they go anywhere else. The alertness to a sound I could not hear before.
My body is different. Did not expect my hottest version to arrive postpartum. I will take it.
I am looking forward to the next leap — hers, and mine. She will roll, babble, grow a tooth. I will do something too. I do not know what yet.
What I have learned in four months: nothing is final. The exhaustion that feels permanent at three in the morning is gone by seven. The bad night ends. There has not been one that did not.
The sun rises. It has not failed to.