We’ve passed the point where she was delivered by a nice hipster doctor in skinny scrubs. We’ve passed the “Oh, keep that, we can use it to reseal the driveway” phase of poop. We’ve passed the mild case of jaundice.
The dog is accustomed enough to five-day-old Alma that he will occasionally sleep through the screaming of a diaper change, instead of running to check that we are doing things right. “No, you’re supposed to LICK her butt,” he seemed to be urging.
We’ve suffered our first diapering-related injury: Ben got a snappi shoved under his fingernail in the middle of the night. And our first breastfeeding related injury — poor Ben again — while cleaning pump supplies. “Ouch! Good god, steam just doesn’t stop being hot!”
We’re at the part where her periods of alertness — searching our faces with brown eyes camouflaged gray-blue — are increasing.
We are surprised with the strength in her six pound body — seconds at a time of practicing to hold her head up. We can see and feel her trying to control her body movements. “How did I just do that? I want to do it again. Oh yes, I move this fleshy bony thing to my mouth.”
We’re at the part where breastfeeding is effortless, we both know the drill: root, root, root, open real big, insert huge nipple, suck, suck, suck.
We’re at the part where one of my breasts is twice the size of her head and all naps are taken on my chest or daddy’s.
We leave Nora to watch her while we pee or get a refill on water and we hear fussy squeaking and then Nora cooing, “Alma Bea, your big sister is here for you.”
We’re at the part where we stare at her endlessly with love and fascination. And we always will be.