I have entered it: motherhood. Where -- at least when the time lapse between shyness and baring both soul and genitalia to a host of strangers has not been long -- silly and dirty terms like nipples and uterus are casual conversation pieces. A little being has penetrated every aspect of my life in a way no book or conversation can prepare you for. I have sobbed just because I love her so much (and, you know, the whole balancing of hormones thing). I have felt a fierce protectiveness alongside pure joy mixed with terror, mostly at what seems so easy: sleeping, especially co-sleeping. Balancing one-and-a-half hour bouts of sleep and sanity, mixing loneliness at 4am with sacred staring contests just two hours before.

She loves to have her hands out in the open, up by her face, even though they get cold (scratch mittens and socks? She's got those off in no time).

She breathes in and out really fast excitedly when she is hungry.

She loves to stare at the mesh in the little portable bassinet.

She is so strong: both her neck and her arms, already.

When she is scared, she reaches both arms out as though grasping for my neck like a little monkey, which breaks my heart every time.

She dreams a lot, sometimes with her eyes partially open, and sometimes making silly and strange whining noises like puppies do.

I love how she clamps the bottoms of her feet together during diaper changes and stops feeding to pass gas.

She smiles every now and again for what seems to be no reason at all except to stretch her facial muscles.

The back of her head is the softest object I've ever touched.

I write these things down because I want to remember them: Eden Ione.