These first six weeks are a hazy blur of newness. Your tiny new toes, your wee little lashes, your soft and then louder and louder new cries. You are so new I watch you sleep, because a bit of me worries you will disappear. How is it possible that six weeks ago you were still a part of me and now here you are, straight from heaven, here to stay? It seems like, no it is, a miracle. You weren't and now you are and you are mine.
Not mine for long, I know. I've learned a thing or two from your big brother. But you have your own lessons to teach me. My early days with you haven't been the lazy getting to know each other I was hoping for. They've been hurried, and worried, and full of tears (from us both). But slowly, we are getting there. Two days ago you smiled a sweet, milk drunk smile and I melted more in love with you. We are finally finding a rhythm, you and I. Sleeping, waking, nursing, smiling. Constantly adjusting, because while we revolve around each other, there is a whole other world fighting for our attention.
You look worried, scrunching up your little brow much of the day. I worry, hoping I am doing enough, responding quickly enough, nourishing you well enough.
Through sleepy eyes we stare at each other and I hope, for now, I am giving you what you need. I know I won't always. I know the time will come, slowly, then all at once when you will step, step, then run away from me. First towards your daddy, then quickly towards the great big world.
For now though, we'll snuggle a little closer together and I'll sneak another sniff of your sweet head. I imagine it still smells a little bit like heaven.
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