If I think too much about the passage of time, I physically ache. Not a metaphorical ache, but a hurt rooted deep within my chest. Can looking at my son’s face while he sleeps break my own heart? Can noticing the once cherubic cheeks that have leaned, the jaw more set in a more distinct…
motherhood
I traded my creativity for a baby
But I think it may have improved my writing. Maybe. Sort of. I am, at least, more intentional with my writing. Each sentence I produce feels like a miracle now. To be able to sit down and formulate words with the insurmountable responsibilities of parenting constantly looming over my head. I used to write in…