If I were a liar, I'd say that motherhood fit me like a glove. That I felt perfectly fulfilled all the time. That I never asked myself, what the H happened to my awesome life, my autonomy, my ability to take one of those deep, free breaths of the untethered?
I'm not a liar. I wouldn't say the first. I wouldn't say the second. I sometimes ask the third, fourth, and fifth.
But then, other times, like tonight, when James and I walk Edie around in the stroller until she squirms and squishes, and then we each take ahold of a baby-hand and walk her down the lamp-lit street, and she looks at her shadow, toddling along with her jeggings and round belly, and I look at that shadow just as hard, maybe sometimes I would say the first, and I would say the second. And I'd still wonder the third, fourth, and fifth, but the questions are quieter, farther away, almost a whisper.