Before Mila.

Sometimes the time Before Mila feels like a dream.  In the shitstorm of things both terrible and banal that have happened since she was born, I occasionally wonder - was that really me who was so pregnant and happy all those months, and not just some woman who looked like me?  I had a baby?  You must be kidding.  Was she real?  Did she exist?  Am I really a mom?  Has it really been only, and already, twelve weeks?  What day is it, and where the fuck am I?

Do I deserve to feel as fucked up as I do?

There are only a handful of things that remind me that I didn’t make her up.  The few things of hers that I can hold in my hand - the clothes she wore, the lock of her hair, her ultrasound pictures.  The people who also remember her, and say her name to me.  And this blog.  I write and re-read this blog in part to remind myself that this all really happened, and that I’m not crazy.