One Month Old

Dear Nesyah,

It is 4:45 AM.  You've been nursing since 3:45 AM, after allowing me a few hours' patchwork of sleep.  Finally, you start to slow down.  I watch your eyes begin to dream behind delicately closed lids.  Swaddled up in your co-sleeper, my hand cradling your bottom, you are sound asleep.  Your lips are pursed sweetly.  Your cheek is so soft.  My heart aches from your absolute beauty and my love for you.


The day will start soon enough.  (Brewing coffee.  Corralling your brothers out of pajamas, into clothes, sitting in seats and eating warm breakfasts.  Folding laundry.  Refereeing tackles and toy possession.  Responding to emails.  Reading storybooks.  Managing the constant cycle of dishes, dirty, clean, in use.  Editing photos.  Preparing meals.  Kissing bumped heads.  Clipping coupons.  Wiping noses, counter tops, and bottoms.)
Nursing you, every two hours, with one arm, doing everything else with the other.


I know that the more put-together I am, the better I'll feel.  A clean face, brushed teeth, a bit of mascara, a change of clothes, and managed hair will do it.  I roll out of bed, stumble in to the bathroom.  I just need 10 minutes.
Just as the water starts to get warm enough for me to wash my face,

you become outraged.  

In the other room, I hear you fuss, snort, and scream, indignant that body contact has been broken.

You are right.  It's not fair.  Each day should be made up of you and me, my little love, snuggling close, drifting off to sleep together, getting to know one another in a haze of adoration.

But you are (oh-so-lucky to be) a third born child.   

And so our days are instead made up of this dance.  

I try to be present in the moment, to remind myself that the time I spend feeding you is a luxury and not a burden.  I try not to think of everything else that must be done, to focus on what is being accomplished as you snuggle close, as your eyes drift shut, as you are comforted.  My heart aches with half-guilt, half-resentment when I must once again put you down and once again you squall in protest.

Then there are the pure moments.  When you curl up on my chest, sound asleep in pure contentment.  When your deep blue eyes stare into mine as though you are seeing something magical.  When you let forth the tiniest coo or sigh and I swear I have never heard anything sweeter.  This is when I mourn that a whole month has already flitted by.   

This is when I feel my heart start to settle into its love for you, 

to carve out a place that will be treasured up for you alone.

The absolute magic of your existence is being translated, day by day, into a person - you.  It is made up of those pure moments of unencumbered love from your Ima, but no less so of life's practicalities and your protests.  You have been born into a full life, one that I would not trade for my sake or yours.
Its realities mean that you are not afforded undivided attention at the same time that it means that you are surrounded by the love of brothers, a gift that will carry you long after Abba and I are gone.
 

You are quick to anger at losing what you want, which pains me now but bodes well for your future as a woman who will never settle for less than what she deserves, or for less than what is right.
Already, my heart swells with joy for the individual you are becoming.


This month has been difficult.  We are all learning new rhythms, coping with new circumstances.   We are learning about one another, and re-learning what it means to live this life day by day.  I pray that you are patient with me while I learn to mother you, as I pray for patience with you as you learn what it means to be in this world.

You are so dear to me, my sweet one, and I love you so very much.

Love,

Ima