Yesterday I left Birmingham after a two week stent arranged to postpone the inevitability of being a mother alone while Lane travels for a month for work.
Eva is just over 6 weeks old.
Just before leaving She developed some congestion that me worried to distraction while both sets of grandparents assisted me of the common nature of this pest in infants. My dad was an all out Saint, leaving at all hours to pick up saline solution and anything else I asked for to try and combat the mucus building up in my daughter’ she perfect nose. He was the first to successfully suction anything out and give her better rest than she’d been experiencing. He was so patient as I questioned him at every turn. I am grateful.
Flying away from my safety net of people who love Eva and I, I was more scared than I have been. This little person is totally perfect and now she’s absolutely dependant on me. One day, they say, a stuffy nose on my kid won’t drive me to total-apocalyptic- concern. One day, they say, I’ll feel more confident in my moves as a mother and not inadequate and afraid. Until then, I’ll just kiss this little stopped up nose, cuddle her little body, take her temperature a zillion times, feed her every second she’ll take it, and thank the Lord that something so perfect exists and that he is going to move the mountains so that my slow and tired feet can pass through these days.
I love snuggling your tiny little pajama clad body when you’re just waking up. You work through your long morning stretches. These include the superman, the disco, and a series of smiles and frowns as you remind all of your favorite muscles how to work again.
I love the way you look at the sunlight and the way you eat, your hand waving gracefully around as if you were the queen dining on some rarity. Or with your arm extended above your head, hand in a fist like you just won at the Olympics.
I love the quiet nights when you wake up hungry. There are so few times in my life where I have risen in those hours and the world was made up of only one room. It once was that if my eyes opened at two, my mind wandered the world and my relationships in and to it restlessly. Now you make the smallest sound and here we are, just you and I, in a time and space outside of what I knew. I am thankful for the way you focus my mind.
One day (not far away) you will be much bigger and you won’t miss these days. But I will.
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.