You sleep, blissfully unaware that your mama is already grieving the passage of time. How is it that you are already two weeks old? How is it that you and I have endured (on average) changing 10 poopy diapers a day, pumping about 20 ounces of milk a day, and having fits of crying (mama and baby) one to two times a day for the past 14 days? I won’t add my showering stats to the mix, as they shine a poor light on my recent personal hygiene habits. Oh, well. At least, you’ve received the recommended numbers of baths to your horror and fury. Apparently, you would prefer to smell like fermenting milk.
I look at you and know that I would do anything to keep you safe, help you grow, give you the best chance at changing the world. You’ve already changed mine, Chickadee.
Your Daddy and I sat in bed last night, attempting to have an adult conversation before one or both of us fell into an exhausted slumber. I must admit that I was coming in and out of consciousness during some of the conversation. Still, it counts. Never doubt his love for you, Precious Girl. The fierceness with which he loves you melts my heart. As your Daddy described the depth of his love for you, we both agreed that we need to reevaluate God’s love for us and the fierceness with which God loves us, as His children. Neither of us had ever experienced a type of love this deep with which to compare God’s love to. Neither of us realized that NOTHING you ever do would dim our love for you. I have a feeling that the power of this realization is going to revolutionize my faith. One day, when you are a mother, you will understand.
Today, though, we will work on the monumental task of nursing. You made mama’s week when you latched on your own this past Tuesday (weeks ahead of what the lactation consultant predicted) and began to suck with all your might. Each day since then, you’ve eaten through a combination of bottle feedings from pumped breast milk and nursing sessions. You don’t appreciate the slower rate of milk that is available through the breast nor the amount of work it requires of your small mouth to get at it. Still, you persevere. I’m so proud of you. (And, mama can’t wait to NOT have to pump every three hours. Oh, the bliss of that thought!)
Mama finally figured out how to wrap her Boba and secure you inside for some brief periods of time where she had two hands to use AND was snuggling you. You take time not in people’s arms as a personal slight. I understand…my love language is physical touch too.
At your two-week check-up with Dr. Steitz, you weighed 5 pounds, 1 ounce and have now officially made it onto the WHO growth percentile chart, falling into the 2nd percentile. By about 4-5 months old, you are predicted to have caught up, but for now you are my tiny baby bird. I love it.
This weekend is Easter, and you have family to meet on Sunday. I’m so excited to introduce your cute self to more aunts, uncles, and cousins who have been praying for you and waiting for you for so many months. Many of them have been praying with mommy and daddy for the past 3-4 years for your conception, and now you are here. Every last perfect part of you.
Your tiny, beautiful fingers.
Your upturned nose that made itself so apparent on each ultrasound.
Your rosebud lips.
Your deep blue eyes (I wonder what color they will become).
Your dimples that appear when you are either very content or very angry.
Your long legs that stretch themselves out in protest at each and every diaper change.
I love you, Abigail Nichelle. I love you so, so much. My new addiction to caffeinated coffee aside, you are my dream come true. You are the beat of my heart. You are so intertwined with who I am that I can no longer separate myself from the person of you.
Sleepily Stumbling into Week Three,