It’s been more than two weeks since I wrote anything here; in the space of those 19 days, my life completely changed (as we all knew that it would.) On August 6th, a day before her due date, my daughter was born. 20.5 inches long and weighing in at 8 pounds, 14 ounces, she is beautiful, perfect and healthy, and like every new mom before me, I am completely and utterly besotted — and exhausted. I couldn’t possibly be more in love with my little surprise, or her father, than I am right now — or, at least, that’s what I think each day, until the next day proves me wrong. I promise you, I’m well aware that I’m a walking cliche.
Food — at least, food of the solid, consumable by adults variety — has been the farthest thing from my mind, though we’ve had some great dishes. Homemade pizza with chicken, black olives, mushrooms and fresh spinach. The stuffed cannelloni and chicken pot pie I painstakingly packaged while in my two-week-long “early labor” limbo. A hastily-thrown-together crock pot chicken curry, made in a haze of sleep deprivation, using only ingredients I could find in my pantry and freezer.
Ian has picked up some of the slack in the kitchen, making pork chops here, burgers there, and hyper-criticizing his cooking abilities because he doesn’t realize that to me, just the fact that he’s helping is enough. He’s an amazing partner, an amazing dad, and though I know plenty of women have gone it alone, I don’t know how I could do any of this without him.
But we are still here, we are alive, and we are thriving. And pretty soon, I will be cooking again.