Six Days Old

I suppose that, just as amazing as the creation of this baby is – an entire body all set and ready to go, ready to house a spirit when, nine months ago, nothing more than a small speck of it existed – equally amazing is that they come somehow handing you a full supply of something like . . . love and utter devotion.

It’s kind of a good little magic trick I suppose. “Here I am,” they say. “Feed me, and comfort me, and wake up all night with me. Change non stop diapers, and wipe spit up and be, as a side of birthing me, a bit of a physical disaster yourself.” And somehow they have us agreeing wholeheartedly, covering them with kisses, wanting to hold them even when we finally get a moment to set them down, and overall convinced that these helpless and utterly demanding creatures are the greatest treasure we’ve ever been given.

Sigh.

And they are.

They are impossible. And miraculous. And I already want to weep that, in even a few weeks time, she’ll leave her complete “newness” behind.

Here is the beginnings of a little post I started, and never finished, the other evening:

I'm sitting on our big, brown, living-room couch in an utterly quiet house.

The insanely hot July weather we've been having has taken the day off and a cloudy, evening has set in. Outside our many windows I see trees blowing strongly in the wind.

Mike has taken the kids off to run errands and left me here – alone with our three-day-old daughter.

I've purposefully unswaddled her as she sleeps resting against me – even though I know that means there will be no chance of setting her down without her startling herself back awake; but I wanted to be able to rub her wrinkly, little feet; and run my fingers along the peach fuzz covering her impossibly soft shoulder and arm. Her lower lip is pushed somewhat sideways from her cheek being snuggled up against me. I can hear her short little breaths and see her small, blonde lashes.

I imagine I didn’t finish it because Summer demanded otherwise, and, at six days in, I still have no clue how, or when, life will be the least bit normal again. I don’t know how we’ll manage when we can no longer sit in this “time out” stage of all of life revolving around her unpredictable wants and needs; but, I feel so incredibly grateful to be in the place that I am. A place that allows me to appreciate things like fuzzy arms, tiny ears, and baby smell without battling a sense of panic at the same time. I’ve had that overwhelming sensation with some of my newborns; enough to be incredibly grateful that I don’t seem to have much of it now.