[fold]

At last, I am welcomed into the sacred sisterhood of motherhood. A club I was always standing on the outside of. The fold. Jane Fonda said a woman was a virgin until she had a child. I made a fertile egg and I lost my cherry. There is a place inside me that opens and closes, that longs to fold. Inward. A row of flannel cloths, diaper inserts, prayer flags in the wind, folded into a drawer, or unfurled. Consumed by flame, sweets eaten, extra folds of skin that will one day turn to ash. My baby's extra folds warm him, thicken him like batter or rain clouds, give him heft and health. A fortune is hidden inside the folds, pick one. That place inside, the anemone drifting lazily in the current, the sharp corners or the soft folds, shot through with veins and blood or adipose tissue. I take a forward fold to the floor, spiral inside, widen apart, push, melt, surrender. I am one with it. I am born inside out over and over again, folding like a party chair or a paper doll every time he takes a breath or cries out. I open. I close. I unfold. (liz)

I would fold her tiny clothes before she was born thinking they couldn’t get any smaller there couldn’t a human being that small. When she was born she was smaller she was so tiny and we bought new clothes that would fit her, special little clothes smaller than humans are suppose to be outside of the womb. Her skin would fold over her tiny legs just hanging on with what seemed like nothing between it and her small bones. I could fold her all four pounds of her she could fit into a diaper bag that was way to big for her tiny diapers. Now I fold her clothes she at 9 months some of her clothes at 12 months. Her pudgy legs with fold after fold of wonderful padding. Her eyes so big watch as I tidy her room folding her towels, folding her burp clothes, folding the hand-me-downs that fit her now. Folding her doll‘s clothes that use to fit her. (rebecca)

Fold my friend of many ways. Folding towards the earth in submission. Yoga how I need you each day. Folds in my babies skin are fading with every step he takes and leap in learning about the world. Growing stronger, leaner less baby-like. I miss the chubby folds in his arms. Laundry is my loyal companion. A distant relative you love but wish would only stay for 3 days.My back is folded. I never feel straight enough anymore. Hunched over protecting my baby, protecting my heart, weary from sleeplessness. I need some heart-opening moves. Folding to the earth and opening back up with arms stretched to the heavens. (jenny)

I normally hate folding laundry. My laundry sits spilling out of the dryer, stacked on top of the dryer, piled on my dresser. I refuse to fold my husbands laundry. However, hers I take my time with - it's a ritual of love. Matching outfits makes me giddy and folding creases brings me such satisfaction. Onsies, kittle shirts, pants, diaper cloths, bibs, blankets. Pulling them warm out of the dryer makes me indescribably happy. I remember when I never thought she'd ever wear two piece pajamas. I remember when I couldn't imagine her little feet ever hitting the floor. I watch the months go by Newborn, 3-6 months, 6-9 months, 9-12 months, 12-18 months. I am really buying 18 month sizes now? This ritual of folding her clothes is one of the few immediate reminders of the passing of time. Time gets lost in the rhythm of mothering. Time fools you into thinking it's standing still in sweet naked moments, nursing in bed after an afternoon at the pool, rubbing fuzzy blankets over each other's faces, laying in the hammock staring at the sky through oak leaves. Folding her tiny clothes reminds me that one day she will put on, choose, fold and pay for her own clothes.

Each time it makes want to swallow her whole, to have her back inside of me before she wants to wear skinny jeans and tube tops. (jenn)

Fold, a tough one- the mind wanders- where am I today? The “throw your cards in, games over” type of fold or the “warm loving embrace of being enveloped in someone’s arms” type of fold? Maybe it is the “cover me up” into the folds of this new life? Living by the moment, breathing and being a family. In love, in awe, in gratitude for being able to bear witness to all that Lily is and will become. Gushing love and determination, making her way purposefully through the room, gleefully “un-folding” the stack of clothes left too long unattended. There I am, finding time to fold again. (dawn)

That pinch of skin between knee and upper thigh, that beautiful pucker—a feature on myself I would call a defect, something to purge through diet and exercise—is so beautiful on her. There are so many passages of her flesh where I find utter perfection. Those tiny fingers and toes—but what mother can't say that about her child? That tiny belly button, which several weeks after her leaving the womb, oozed a crusty yellow liquid. The doctor said it needed to be cauterized, a word I associate with those wounded in war. The only battle my baby had experienced was the one to get out of me, and that excreting, little wound was the only damage she wore from that six-hour-long struggle. Fold. The way she folds into me when it's time to sleep, as if I am her favorite blanket, her favored form of protection. When I put her down on blankets still cool to the touch, she folds her body away from me, giving me her perfect little back. I miss her in that moment, though only moments before I had yearned to have a little time to myself. (dalia)