Saturday, December 25, 2010
Everyone can collectively roll their eyes right now, but I am feeling sad that my baby is growing up so fast. She seems like such a big girl already, ten pounds of tiny thigh rolls and double chin.
Susannah stays awake now for much longer periods and spends her time widening her big blue marbles at me and giving me small grins that I have to work overtime for. If I'm really lucky, and have added eyebrow-raising at her to my performance, she'll lift her eyebrows, too, crinkle her eyes and let out a little kitten-like "gaaa." That means "I love you." I'm sure of it, the same way I am sure that frantic "HEH HEH HEH HEH" means "What could possibly be taking this waitress so long to bring the warm milk?."
At six weeks, she continues to be a very content baby when she is awake. The only time she cries for me is if she is hungry, or if she needs to burp up large amounts of the breast milk she has overeaten, or possibly let out one of her man-sized gas releases. Sometimes they are so loud and so robust, they sound as though they couldn't possibly have come from something ten pounds and curled so innocently with her chubby cheek resting on her fist. I'm considering having a button made that says "It really was her."
The only problem with her contentedness to stare and coo at me, is that she enjoys being awake and cooing at me in the middle of the night. Whereas Frankie was awake and furious during the night, arching away from me and rubbing her face madly on my shoulder in a frenzy of overtired madness, Susannah simply passively allows herself to be swaddled tightly and then stares unblinking, her big eyes wide and her double chin resting lightly on the top of the swaddling cloth. Even when it's 3 a.m., I try to remember that she is likely my last baby, that someday I will be willing to give away all my earthly possessions just to smell her fuzzy head one more time.
It helps, to think that way. There may be plenty of time to doze in my wheelchair someday, but the nights are few when I will sit in our old pink-cushioned rocking chair in the dim glow of the nightlight singing "Silent Night" to the wide eyes of my very own baby girl.