“I’m sorry,” I say as I plop a laundry basket of clean cloth diapers down on the small kitchen island, “I haven’t had a lot of adult interaction lately, and I feel like I’m way too excited talking about diapers.”
My firstborn, 3-months-old, is pressed against my chest in a soft, blue wrap. Eyes closed, her long eyelashes—her daddy’s eyelashes—feather out from delicate lids.
I glance up from my baby to my load of diapers to my friend unsure of what to say beyond the mundane related to being a mom, beyond the overwhelming upheaval of being a new mom, beyond the all-consuming, all-sacrificing nature of motherhood.”
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