I remember Chris crying after she was born. I remember him having me hold her all swaddled in her blankets. I also remember telling him to take her back because I was about to drop her I was so tired and drugged. I don't remember her crying. The detachment that I felt from pregnancy and delivery was huge. Like watching a movie on lifetime, not my real life. It was the drugs and the exhaustion, not the dramatic fantasy I had played out in my head for so long.

Now she is 3. People tell me that it goes so fast, yet it really hasn't yet. When I look at her and think about our experience together, she should be about 7 now. But she is 3 and everything I needed, although nothing like I expected.

Last night my sister told me her memories about the early morning Ivy was born. She described her round pink face sticking out from the striped knit blanket, her perfect lips. My sister was in the hallway waiting and said that she almost had to sit down, the moment was so huge for her.

This is the memory that I focus on. I do remember that face. I do remember those lips. I just needed a reminder of that little angel that came through that day. Remembering that the 3 year old is the same person as that infant is unimaginable. But they are.

She is the one who makes me think, makes me earn every small reassurance. The love that I feel for this child cannot be described in flowery, ethereal terms. She is real, concrete and certain. She roots me to the minute, doesn't allow for my airy generalizations. She is complicated, and in turn, makes me more complicated that I ever thought I could be.