You are being drained, she told me, literally. Every day, multiple times a day. (Thousands of calories, I read. I try to eat more, try to gain weight. Try not to wither away.)
You lose a tooth for every baby, they tell me. You won't know how much calcium you're losing until it's too late.
It will be hard, everyone warned me, really hard. You'll get through it, though.
I've never been so in demand, pulled in all directions, and so utterly grounded by a tiny body, a toothless grin.
I close my eyes on the train and get lost in the sway, the stale air of strangers and their baleful stares. I snatch sleep like a hungry bandit - uncaring. I don't care what I look like.
Eve grows and grows and doesn't stop growing. She is bringing us with her, however slow and awkward our gait. We're with her.