My daughter has reached beyond four months. Words like, "my daughter," have started to become familiar. Sleeping through the night has gone from utter fantasy to that which is almost within reach. All episodes of Weeds have been watched. And I go back to work in January.
My kid is, literally, no longer the new kid on the block.
And so the year comes to a close. A monumental year of birthing two babies: my film and the roly-poly fruit of my loins. Of travelling to film festivals 8 months pregnant and then, bringing her onstage to take questions from the audience. Of gradually and comfortably finding my place between the mother I thought I would be and the mother I am.
*Brilliant writing from Weeds. The author is currently taking suggestions for other short forms of entertainment.
