This morning, when re-reading past Mommy Diaries (my particular form of mild writer’s block), I was struck by the distance in my voice. While the column’s title suggests a kind of intimacy, I’ve often adopted a less emotional and more educational tone. It occurred to me that behind all that reason is a woman on guard.

What I’m hiding is that I’m no different than most new mums you know – I can go on about Rada for longer than anyone, even those closest to us, can listen. Sometimes, as I give my own mum a minute-by-minute, squeal-by-squeal, poop-by-poop account of my day, I can sense how even her attention drifts away.

In my vanity (lest I be perceived as uncontrollably enamoured) and desire to please you (lest you be bored), dear reader, I have, in a sense, failed you. For though the science of motherhood can be overwhelming (I am introducing solid foods now, and that alone is a topic that can sustain a year of columns; you’ll be reading more on that soon enough), it often pales next to the emotion of it.

When I speak of emotion, I do not refer to some sort of turbulence or grandeur. On the contrary, motherhood somehow restores the ability to be engrossed in minutia, to discover the enjoyable in the seemingly mundane, the small, the passing. In this way, it is very much like being in love – everything, no matter how ordinary, is clothed in beauty, significance and anticipation.

For example, each morning I wake up to the sound of Rada talking to her toy penguin, Agu. Half-asleep, I listen to her animated speech, which ends with several farting sounds that she makes with her mouth, delighting in sprinkling saliva all around. Then she tries out her falsetto – a series of above-register squeals.

When she grows quiet, I can sense her waiting. She has learned by now that eventually I will appear to pick her up, and the patience with which she awaits that moment is endearing.

When I finally tip-toe to her bed and look down on her, she greets me with the most unconditional, brightest, happy-to-see you smile, I have ever seen. Eyes shining, hands flailing, legs kicking. In a single moment, she lifts the exhaustion from my shoulders, erases any trace of frustration over sleep deprivation, shoos away any worries that may have plagued my sleep or furrowed my brow. Utterly disarmed, I can do nothing but smile back. It is the beginning of yet another wonder-filled day.

Wonder – the expression that visits my daughter’s face most often. She seems to believe that if she regards something with her wide-eyes stare for long-enough, she would figure it out, unless the thing proves unworthy of her study by failing to move or make noises. If it does move, or, better yet, talks to her, she rewards it with a big smile. If it doesn’t, she snaps out of her reverie, searching the world for something else to hold her attention.