Afternoons spent in the park with Lorenzo, staring up at Georgia's blue sky. The sun is warm on our bare shoulders and legs as we pull the remaining liquid from our cans of beer.

Luna sleeps in her stroller, releasing the occasional coo (the best sound in the world) and Rowdy stretches his body on the cool grass next to us. This time is so special. And like any special time, I'm aware of its passage, slipping like sand through my fingers.

I want more than anything to soak in these moments:

The awe of our newborn daughter, the joy that she’s finally here with us, the disbelief of how life changes so damn quickly and how we somehow adapt just as quickly.

The strangeness of the world right now in the height of COVID and all the pain and uncertainty it's brought, but also the grace and kindness and connection that keep popping up.

The simultaneous challenge and ease of spending my days nursing and changing diapers and walking outside and texting friends and napping and hanging out with my little family. Of feeling like I'm doing so much but also nothing at all.

The simultaneous reluctance and eagerness of going back to the way things were - work, social engagements, plans, goals, expectations.

The strange pressure of trying to be present and savor this time as much as possible, of wanting to soak in every moment but also veg out in front of the TV and mindlessly scroll through social media.

I don’t want to think about time anymore. I just want to drink my beer and look at the blue sky. But the can is empty now, and the day is fading into dusk.

Notes from my journal — week one of being home with Luna:

A sunlight-filled morning in our enhanced world. She sleeps deeply, finally, and so does he. But this time of day calls me for coffee and coming back to myself.

I wash my face and put on serum and mascara, eat granola with oatmilk, and take Rowdy out.

Giddiness at finally being home somehow trumps sleep deprivation. Tidying up the house because clutter is bad for my mental state. Texts and phone calls with friends. (Social distancing is so normal now that I sometimes forget to miss physical hangouts.)

A nap and then THE family walk - the vision I've been holding for months. Me, Lorenzo, Luna, and Rowdy, all together outside in the sunshine. It's so simple but to me, it represents the opening of this new chapter.

My heart breaks over and over again,
from how deeply I love her, from these moments (like all of them) being temporary, from her nestled on Lorenzo's chest and the honey joy in his voice, from feeding her, our instincts at the forefront. Soreness, rawness, frustration, accomplishment.

Later, an outdoor-social-distance dinner and much-needed connection with friends. Locking eyes with Lorenzo across the table. Cheers babe, he says. I am so in love with our life.

That night, she screams as I feed her in bed and pulls away from my breast, her face red. It's the first time that's happened and I swallow panic. Was it the food, the glass of wine, the late night with friends - the things that make me happy, the things I also need? She throws up, a lot, on me, on herself, on the clean Ralph Lauren sheets. My boobs ache and leak from scabs. My two stitches throb. I have to pee. I cannot disengage. I cannot sleep this off. Those options no longer exist and it's fucking terrifying.

Lorenzo holds her while I shower. I use my expensive shampoo and let the hot water run over my still-tender body, soft where it used to be firm and firm where it used to be soft. I scrub and shave and dry and moisturize and return to myself.

She's resting on Lorenzo's chest, quiet. She looks at me with her deep blue eyes. I love you. I love us. I love this.