She tugs my sleeve for what feels like the 100th time in the past five minutes and I feel myself waning. I feel the patience I had intended to have for the day become droplets in my well instead of ever flowing. I breathe in a restorative breath, hoping that it will bring some clarity. Instead I find myself checking the time and begin to count down the minutes till I will sing her her lullaby and put her to bed for the night.

And then instantly my heart hurts, that would mean twelve hours without her.

How easily I have become attached to her, how quickly my heart wants to spend every moment with her. How is it possible that just a few years ago the thought of having a babe to call my own would cause me intense anxiety but now the thought of being away from her causes the same reaction? How has this has become me?!

A woman who never dreamed of being a mother, now flourishing and relishing in the role.

Being a mother is very different than I anticipated it to be. It is more glamorous and more antagonizing all at the same time. It has pulled me apart by every seam possible but has somehow managed to sow me back up into a greater version of myself than I could have ever imagined. My body now has marks and lines that only come through childbearing, but my heart has been etched with a love that can only come from loving so deep and so endlessly. These love marks began with Mister and she has made them so profound that just like the lines on my body they will be there for all eternity.

I am not a mother who has endless patience but I do have a love that somehow fills me up when I find myself completely depleted before the end of the day.

When that moment finally comes, the one I have been counting down to, she nuzzles herself into her favourite spot: her body in my arms and her head into the crook of my arm right against my breast. I sing her the lullaby we chose for her months ago and I rock her gently in the stillness of the night. Her eyes begin to flutter so I kiss her forehead and lay her in her bed and whisper “we made it my little love, and tomorrow we will make it again”.

Images: Chris Loh