{three months}

I'm sitting at the counter in my kitchen eating a bowl of cereal, listening to Modest Mouse, watching the snow fall. Sullivan is sitting here with me, yawning like Rip Van Winkle. There's no pressure to leave the house today, since Barclay has the car and it's storming and Sully and I are sick as dogs anyway, so I'll probably make cookies and take naps and clean the house and make a blanket nest in that wee patch of weak winter sunlight and finish Perelandra with a sleeping baby in the crook of my arm.

He's three months old now, and I like him a lot. We're still figuring this thing out, but I think we're starting to understand each other a little better now. I know when he's hungry or tired or overwhelmed, he's learning, sort of, how to sleep at night, and we've discovered a mutual appreciation for the song Cherry Tree by The National. He smiles at my jokes even though he doesn't understand English, which either means that my humour transcends language barriers or that my son is kind and a little bit patronizing.

Like his dad.

I remember when I found out he was coming that I was a little bit afraid of losing myself in motherhood. I was scared that I'd just forget about everything and everyone I liked before and all of sudden be only interested in talking about labour and posting exorbitant amounts of pictures of my baby on social media and that noisy Fisher Price toys would cover every square inch of my house and I'd say things like, "You think you're tired? Try being a mom--I haven't slept in a billion years!"

And, I guess, I've probably become that person in some ways without realizing it. It's hard not to be consumed by someone when you spend all your time with them and they control your days and, of course, you love them so much that it feels like your heart is screaming. But I've also learned that it's ok, no, good, and even very healthy to keep your old self around too. The self that loves her husband and her friends and her hobbies and her music and her quiet time. That self can still be a good mom, even if she reads Perelandra instead of The Happiest Baby on the Block.

Which is a relief, because that book looks boring to me.

Besides, I think that "losing yourself" to anything only happens to the extent that you let it.

Anyway. Someone wants a change of scenery. And someone else wants some chocolate. We're out.