There hasn't really been an "us" for the first two years.

There has always been, on the contrary, a clear, strong, self-affirmative "her".

Even before she was born: her legs kicking all over my tummy, her jumps of fear when I would place my hands under that noisy automatic hand-dryer she didn't like. Her hiccups, rhythmic like a gentle tennis match, her disappointment when I would sleep on the side she didn't want me to.

People give you all sorts of advice when you give birth or when you are breastfeeding. As much as I am grateful to those that I actually required, I am also aware that some stories I heard were not about me, were about them. A sort of mystification of their past.

Also comments, they might walk through your soul like studded boots. "We were one when I breastfed the baby". No we were not. My daughter would stop sucking to look at the leaves around her and I would darken. My breasts would hurt.

"The baby and I like to do this and that", We", "Us".

I had no "us". I had a clear, distinct "her". And a blurry and transitioning "I", bombarded with not requested all-sorts-of-advice, unsteady and yet powerful.

Looking back, I now wish that at the time I had one person coming to me saying "it's ok not to perceive yourself as a whole with the newborn".

I did not feel guilty, not at all. I just felt detached, and tired, most of the time. One of those teachers who worry or frown rather than smiling. In the diary I kept, I read about episodes of "perfect happiness" though.

Now that my daughter is two, I admit - or should I say I'm surprised to discover - that I love her tenderly, and I love her MORE than before.

There hasn't really been an "us" for the first two years, this is how I started my story. The day I felt like "us" was one of the first warm days of spring, and I had to drive her to do a very unpleasant anti-covid swab, to a place I wasn't sure I was able to find.

All circumstances led me to become a smooth pillow around her gentle and immaculate happiness, in her unaware trip to the swab. I had the clear perception she was sacred.

In my bag I had put water, a pacifier, toys and a hat. And seeing how she needed me, how she trusted me, how she relied on me, how every item that I brought turned out to be just essential, and how I happened to take it out of the bag just a magician, raised a new sensation in me: relax. I felt I matched with the Universe.

I'm still in love with that afternoon, with the extra long ride I took to unknown neighbourhoods to allow her to nap quietly on the backseat of the car, and the immense sensation of being just right at my place with my creature.

I felt I was her pouch. All soft, all calm, all protective.

All ours.