I don’t own a normal diary, so please indulge me this post that I wanted to record someplace, somewhere for posterity.
You are 4 months and 1 week old today.
I can’t believe how quickly the time has flown since I first found out I was expecting you. 9 months (+ 2 weeks, you lazy little bugger) of anticipation, excitement, fear and expectation culminating in one very early morning dose of pain that (at the time) I was sure I wouldn’t be able to survive.
For what?
For 3 weeks of disbelief, an adrenalin rush that will never be rivalled contradicted by falling asleep whilst eating my dinner. 3 weeks spent mapping each eyelash, every skin crinkle and being astonished by how perfectly we’d managed to make you.
For 5 weeks thinking “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”… 5 weeks of feeling like we were battling with you every step of the way, amazing ourselves with limitless patience we never knew we were capable of. You seemed such a sad little girl, lost and homesick… perhaps you were. We couldn’t comfort you, couldn’t make you happy and on top of that, I lost the ability to feed you and couldn’t get it back.
Then one day, the sun shone. It shone until it blinded us and made the tears prick our senses.
You are a strong little thing, always trying to achieve feats that your tiny body won’t allow you to do. You’re always listening, always watching, always learning… looking for the next person to charm with your infectious dimples. You reach for anything and everything… straight in the mouth as if you’re going to taste your way to adulthood. You talk to us, cooing and grumbling “ehgoowa” ’till we agree with your point of view. Sometimes, we catch each other looking at you… soaking up the ‘pig in poo’ feelings that you instill in us. We look at one another and smugly bask in that shared experience, silently congratulating each other on a job well done.
You don’t laugh too much, despite our best efforts (we’ve come to the conclusion that we’re just not that funny). Instead, you are a smiling machine. Your (slightly crooked) grin lights up the room, everything goes a little bit soft around the edges and the only thing we can see is you. You make little piggy sounds that make us laugh (especially if you do them when you’re trying to be cross with us). When you grizzle in the car, Daddy repeatedly puts his palm to your open mouth so that your complaints turn into Indian “wah wahs” instead. We promise to take them more seriously when you get older. You love to hear me sing (you’re the only one who does) and your favourite smile-inducing ditty is “Black Hills of Dakota“, so you’re already a Doris Day fan (yay!) and just as uncool as Mummy (double yay!)
You drool like a St. Bernard, and sometimes… just when it’s got so long that gravity is sure to overcome… you suck it back up and make Daddy and me feel a little bit sick. Then you blow a huge spit bubble just ‘cos you can. You would walk if you could, you’d walk a marathon… we fear that you may leave home when you are 6 just so that you can have an adventure. We can’t decide if your hair is red or blonde… we try not to hope too hard for red. When Mummy holds you, Daddy says that we become the same person. He says that because our complexions are identical, we merge into one. I hoped that you might be a little more tan like Daddy… but no, you’ll be sharing my SPF before I can say “factor 50”.
We hope you will have Daddy’s temperament and gentleness, Mummy’s openness and loyalty and get some confidence from someplace else. Don’t ever stop lighting up rooms.
We love you Leily-Bum, our joyful little girl. Happy 17 weeks old.
…){kind=link}