yesterday we flew to Alabama. You are a natural, birdie, it must run in your veins.
Today you and I slept way in and you haven’t stopped eating since — this is your traditional response to having new people or experiences surrounding you. You were the same when guests came weeks ago. Can a person be an introvert at one month old? If so, you are one and I think it’s sweet.
This evening you played piano with granddaddy and almost accepted sleep in Mimi’s arms.
I’m here now, rocking you in the chair I was rocked to sleep in at your age, you are eating again, and falling asleep, and eating again. Your tiny hands reaching for familiarity and finding my stomach and t-shirt. It is quiet in the Alabama twilight and I didn’t know this was everything a person could want. Only your daddy is missing here.
You are just right just as you are, Eva.
Milk drips down your face as you fall asleep mid meal again. You’ll wake up with a jump and start eating again soon, the look on your face tells me you suspect that I’m the one who halted your breakfast so abruptly.
Mornings are slow moving with you, your schedule defies my prior constructs and I have only gratitude for the quiet spaces filled with your rose petal breaths and hands that grip all the tighter for their small size. These days are all packed together and are rare nonetheless.
I love you, birdie.
you are four weeks old and wearing a jumper made for a preemie. When you were first born I didn’t want to put you in this piece because I was afraid you’d be cold but — like your dad — you run hot. Your face is every shade of pink in a day.
You are so alert and when I stick out my tongue you respond with your own. You love when your dad blows raspberries at you and kisses your feet.
You are loved, darling girl.
a storm is coming in and you are sound asleep on my lap. I meant to get up and put you down for your nap, but here in the quiet before noon I can’t bring myself to do that.
When you were two weeks old your dad wondered out loud if we would ever get tired of watching you sleep. Right now I can’t imagine that.
Your peace is peace shared.
I saw you meet the breeze today, eyes squinted in greeting. She brushed your cheek the way I do and you grew quiet — a lull in the midst of a nap opposing tirade — you met her like an old friend and I saw a familiar look on your face — I’ve worn the same one year after year.
Even the wind seems happy that you are here.
my whole life I have felt the passage of time keenly. Consistently I have been aware of how brief moments are. I remember starting ninth grade and believing that the end of high school would feel like a blink away. I wished I was still six even then.
This time wrinkling, blinking, clasping has been compounded by moving from home, by marrying a military man, by drinking in every new place, every dinner with family, every minute with lane in gulps before it passes me by again.
My whole life I have felt time move like a river over my feet, the stones of certainty slick beneath my surest foot. But now I have a daughter who is nearly three weeks old. The days between her birth and now run together and I still wonder — how is time passing so quickly?
milk spills from my daughter’s lips and down my soft stomach as she falls asleep on the breast, full for the moment.
This morning she cried from hunger but when I pulled her into my arms and brought her up to feed she held her head back to look towards the open curtained window — dazzled and momentarily contented by the new presence of sunlight after a dark and wakeful night. 9 days old and already a lover of the light.
I feel inadequate most of the time, but in her eyes I can see God saying “I am not finished with you yet” and I am grateful for this treasure and the promise of full life today and in the tomorrows.