For the life of me I cannot figure out how this happened. One day I was thinking about having a baby, and today I have a yogurt-eating monster hiding in my bedroom. I have juice stains on my carpet, a few extra pounds on my hips and a pair of tiny blue eyes almost always on my mind.

I have not seen the monster, mind you, but that doesn't mean much. I don't see a lot of things these days. Like two matching shoes, my car keys, a lipstick without tooth marks, the nightly news or the bottom of my In Box. Mostly, I don't see how I ever got along before.

I do not know how this happened. One day I lay in a hospital bed holding a warm, pink bundle, and today I can hold a wriggling child, a briefcase, a stuffed animal, a sippy cup, a cell phone – and still hold the door open for a stranger, while declining any assistance – with a smile. Today I hold a life together with a balance so delicate the puff of a baby's breath could topple it to pieces.

One day I left the hospital with stretch marks on my tummy, and today my heart is pulled in two. I leave the office too early, pick up my daughter too late and scavenge time from every nook and cranny for both. I beg forgiveness when it is 7 p.m., and I leave my colleagues with the undone work. I swallow hard when my daughter calls me by her nanny's name and melt to nothing when she snuggles up against me and says, "Mommy, you stay home."

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