The Dance with my Daughter

Pardon me for not answering the phone. I’m dancing with my daughter.
My journey to motherhood has been riddled with uncertainty, doubts creeping in during the years that have passed. Do I want to sacrifice my career and education? I worked so hard as a business journalist, traveling the continent over and winning awards. Life was easy. My master’s degree is as close as a class or two, a degree that I have worked so hard for, a degree in managerial economics that will open doors for me that I can only imagine. And then life made me push the pause button. She arrived on Oct. 9 after 12 hours of labor and then an emergency c-section. As I’m typing this, she’s sleeping in her Pack N Play, a godsend for these new parents. Who knew that a pack n play could hold so much power? The owls on the mobile above her dance in circulation, mesmerizing her and giving me and her father sweet relief. If only the mobile would stay wound up! When that doesn’t work, we dance, me and her, her body so small I fear I’ll hurt her or damage her in some way. The music now comes from the IPOD stereo. The IPOD is the other form of sweet relief, playing tunes that her father and I have gathered over the years of our marriage. AC DC, Faith Hill, Brandi Carlile, the Rolling Stones, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Elvis. Everything you can imagine. We want, after all, to expose her to a great mix of music. Our steps are awkward at first as we make sense of each other, her body changing so quickly during her first seven weeks and her eyes often locking in on mine as she lays her head on my chest. Trusting, gentle, wonderful eyes. Clear, bright, beautiful. Are they her father’s? I think so. Maybe the shape is mine. What will she look like in a year? As a teenager? What will she look like as an adult? For now, I’ll hold her, cling to her, love her, and take this life day by day. This time, the baby is mine and I can’t send it back with its parents.