In the beginning, I told myself it was only practical. Lisa needed me—needed this body that could feed her, hold her, comfort her with the sound of its heartbeat. I had gotten so good at the rituals of motherhood, so attuned to the rhythms of the body, that it felt cruel to interrupt the routine. She needed consistency, the books all said. No sudden changes, no unnecessary disruptions.
There was no avoiding the demands of motherhood. The baby needed to be fed, changed, bathed, rocked. I learned to hold her against my skin, her tiny fists kneading at my chest, her mouth rooting with a determination that bordered on desperation. I grew accustomed to the leak of milk, the sticky dampness, the raw tenderness of my nipples after a long feeding.
It wasn’t long before I started to admire the body, to take pride in its strength and utility.
I turned sideways, marveling at the profile. My reflection showed a stomach that was soft but flat, flaring out into hips that felt impossibly wide and sturdy compared to my boyish frame. I ran my hands down my sides, feeling the dip of the waist and the sudden, dramatic curve of the hip.
I became obsessed with the way my hips rolled when I walked, the way my hair spilled down my back in wet clumps after a shower, the heat and ache of my breasts as they filled with milk.
Mostly, I stuck to jeans and t-shirts during the day, the uniform of my old life, but even here I started to notice the differences. Jeans that once hung loose at my waist now struggled to contain the new curve of my hips; t-shirts stretched tight across the chest.
But at night, when I was alone, I’d dig through my mother’s old trunk and try on her clothes—the vintage sweaters from Goodwill, the leggings with the lurid floral patterns, even the bright pink bathing suit I remembered her wearing when I was a little kid. I’d stand in front of the cracked mirror and stare, waiting to be repulsed or amused, but mostly, I was just… entranced.
Sometimes I’d go further, rummaging through the back of her closet for the sequined dress she’d worn to her only high school dance, or the faded concert tee from a band she barely remembered seeing. Each piece told a story, carried a charge of nostalgia I couldn’t explain. I would model the outfits, swapping one for another, a private ritual of transformation, always feeling at once like a trespasser and a detective uncovering clues about the woman I’d become.
I’d peel off my shirt and examine the breasts. They were both familiar and entirely not—my mother’s, after all, but now undeniably my own. I’d run my fingers along the underside, following the shadowed arc, and marvel at how the areolas had darkened and grown, how the nipples responded to the faintest draft of air, the cool stretch of night.
Sometimes I’d touch myself, tentatively at first, then with increasing curiosity and hunger. I discovered the places where the skin was most sensitive, the spots that made me shudder or gasp or laugh out loud. I learned how to bring myself to the edge of pleasure and back, how to lose myself in the sensation without shame.
One afternoon, while Lisa napped in the crook of my arm and the late sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, my mother sat across from me at the table and said, “You know, you don’t have to keep doing this if you don’t want to. You can go back anytime.”
I looked down at the baby’s sleeping face, the soft pink of her lips, the perfect curl of her fingers around my thumb. I thought about the first time I’d nursed her, the way she’d looked up at me with such absolute trust. I thought about all the things I’d learned, all the ways I’d changed, all the ways I’d become her mother.
“I know,” I said, “But I want to.”
“I’m proud of you,” she smiled, “I don’t mind having a bit of a longer break.”
I didn’t say anything. I just held the baby a little closer, and let myself believe that this was where I belonged.
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