A Sculptor

Days after newborn Baby Jameson and I were discharged from the Naistenklinikka (where I may or may not have swiped one or two of their standard hospital-issue yet incredibly comfy nightgowns), we were trying to get to know each other back at the comfortable-but-not-home surroundings of the Mission House.

I was exhausted, felt awful, and had that brand new mother haze about me. So when a visiting friend turned to look at me holding my newborn, I naturally thought he was gawking at the black circles under my eyes, my dirty hair, and my newly soggy shirt. When I shot him an equally filthy look to get him to quit staring at me, he said with his signature twinkling eye, "Maren, you're a sculptor." Embarrassed, I rolled my own bloodshot eyes at him.