I could start with the quiet, lonely hours before I pushed my daughter out, tangled up in hospital wires and terrified. I could start with the tender darkness of our recovery room, the beam of Avi’s iPhone flashlight on my chest as I learned to breastfeed, tears tracing my cheeks at the white-hot pain. I could start with our alarms: midnight, 2am, 4am, 6am. Or the nurse who held my hips while she lined my underwear with four thick pads, more than I thought could fit in a single pair. Imagine the feeling: Her warm hands on my cold skin, telling me she’d seen it all. Maybe I could start in the sterile hallway on check-out day, where I stood joylessly in a new black sweatsuit, weeping because I needed a wheelchair and was told to just walk.
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