It is Tuesday and I am walking around the house vaguely looking for something with Eva August on my hip. She is taking in the world, eyes wide, not complaining as we wander through the kitchen for a fourth time. Finally, I find the coffee I forgot I was looking for and lean in to look at Eva. Her face has changed, its rounder and somehow looks so much like her dad. She catches my smile and smiles back. I put down my coffee and take her to our bed.
She is all in white, cheeks pink, eyes sharp blue and gleaming. I swing her up in the air and pretend to drop her on the bed. My hands never leaving her back and neck. She is delighted by the almost-fall and starts to laugh. I make a serious face at her and she makes one back. I smile and her face lights up in return. I use the mattress to help her feel like she’s jumping and she melts into a mess of giggles. She is flying — white romper against white bed-cloth and rose skin.
She is perfect and I want to always live in this moment.
My daughter laughs now. Silly giggles that come out more like a delighted growl, like she’s pranking me, like she’s in on the joke. Every time she does it, she claims the room and then it bubbles over in response to her brand new reaction. Like the world has never heard anything like it.
The days have been full and busy and change-filled. So much so that my daughter has not spent a whole month in one state in all of her life. She is an explorer and one who takes it gracefully.
in my whole life I have never felt as small as I do now. Holding her — the enormous gift and weight all bound up into 12 pounds of trust, that I will show up if she needs anything. That I will find what is wrong and fix it. That I could do anything without a word of language.
And somehow I do, I will, I can. But like — in discovering impossible remedies like speaking with my voice several octaves too high, or bringing her little mouth to it’s only source of food, or by lifting her up and then down again — saying so with every motion. Giving her the words to every action so she learns them. Minuscule tasks, my whole life.
Then she laughs out of nowhere like the sun breaking through a gloriously overcast day. The kind of overcast that makes you feel safe. The kind of sun that makes you trust joy.
I am small and my life is increasingly placid and simple and yes, I love it.
Eva did the best thing last night.
As we practiced neck strength, her standing on my legs like a prairie dog supported by my hands, she carefully observed the contrast of the bookshelf to the wall and the photos hanging framed behind me. Suddenly, her eyes found mine and her face broke into a smile as she made excited noises. I was a surprise and (for the first clear time) a recognized friend.
Every day is new here. I am a puddle.
It is raining and green through the front window and you are nursing. Normally I hold you up with a boppy pillow, it gives me two hands to work with, but today I am holding your whole weight. I want to feel how light you are, how heavy you are.
Your dad is sending videos of a perfectly clear day in Arizona where he will hike to the tallest peak. Simultaneously, thunder is rolling over our heads. We are all in some of our favorite spots and still filled with the love that lets us share our lives like this.
Almost 8 weeks old, Eva, and still I am astounded by your soft hands, the way you communicate, the gentle ebb and flow you add to my days, and the grace you give to my blunders as I learn the best way to maneuver this new role. We are both learning. These days are invaluable to me and I wouldn’t change them or trade them for anything.
I am still surprised that I am often the only one able to comfort you. I’ve never been that to anyone and I won’t be to you forever but I’m grateful for the days that you come to me and get quiet in my arms.
You have lived on this earth for 53 days yet I cannot imagine a day without you now.
imagine, you will be here for the majorty of my life and all the remainder of it. I will be here for the majority of your life and get to scoop up the rare beginning days of you.