a piece of falling into it

Like pretty much every other couple, he and I have often talked about how lucky we are to be together. There is, of course, the "luck" of finding each other in the first place. But that initial burst of good fortune is just that; it's at the beginning and, because it doesn't require much work right away, it doesn't speak to the "forever" that everyone associates with the Big L.

There's more to it, really. There is also our luck at really falling in love after we were married. We had certainly said we loved each other before the day, and we've always meant it. But it has been through our experiences together that we have fallen more deeply into it. Whatever words we said to each other about "forever" years ago have only come to mean something each day we wake up together and do it all over again. That's where the lucky comes in; not that we were right in the first place, but that we choose to be right each day.

This is probably not a surprising revelation. I think any couple would say that time makes a difference in the depth of union

So now onto admitting something that is more tender.

I knew I wanted to be a mother before we had our daughter. When we found out we were having a girl, we literally high-fived. I was so excited and ready. I spent a lot of time thinking about the big day when she would finally be here, wanting to be prepared to do my part. When it came, it was beautiful beyond anything.

And then, we came home.

And she cried. And didn't sleep. So we didn't sleep. This is nothing new; this is, as they say, par for the thing golfers putt upon. We were totally exhausted and overwhelmed, as everyone is. I remember watching Gwyneth Paltrow on "Oprah," talking about how when her daughter was born, she had "baby euphoria," but when her son was born she was depressed. That made me feel better. Until she said that she had dinner with Madonna and that had really helped her get out of the funk. That option didn't seem available to me, so I sunk a little deeper.

Each day at home seemed long, cold, and filled with radio in a chair. The winter sun poured through her nursery and there I sat, rocking and nursing and not.moving.at.all. I felt horrible. It wasn't love I felt; it was an overwhelming sense of responsibility and fear that I was going to screw her up. Just by being me. I was supposed to be filled with all of these instincts and inclinations and instead I looked at this amazingly beautiful creature and felt so sorry that she had gotten stuck with me. It didn't feel like depression, or what I imagined depression to be. It felt like a mountain before me that I was not prepared to climb. I felt young and old enough to know better. And that made me feel foolish. I had made this choice, too.

What I didn't know and what I think I do now is that my daughter and I had to get to know each other. Because she is, amazingly, a person. Since she was born, she had been an individual, not a vessel. She is not something for me to shape; she is someone for me to shepherd. I have come to understand her likes and joys and what she needs and wants from me. She, for her part, has grown to understand me and who I am. She may be made of us but this child is her own lady. And once I came to understand this, that so much of it is outside of my control, everything has been a wonder. We have been relaxed and we have had fun. We have fallen in love with each other, as all people do when they are meant to be.

We are just that, she and I. We roll through the time we spend together laughing and eating ice chips. She pretends to put food in my mouth and then eats it herself. What a joker. Just like her mom.