The beginnings of motherhood are all-consuming. There is the bodily weirdness (my inflated boobs ache from being sucked on every two-to-three hours and I'm so dang tuckered I have difficulty carrying on a ten minute conversation with an eight year old). There are the messes (her vomit and poo are today's perfume). Then there is the emotional attachment I have for this little person who flopped around my innards for over nine months. I look at her and peripheries melt away. Everything is new. The creaking floors, the smell of my kitchen, my reflection in the mirror, showering, farting, taking a bite of spinach from a fork, petting the cats, flipping through the pages of a book. Life is crispier thanks to Miss Beckett.