What is it about recent parenthood that turns the world into some crazy time warp? No, not in this, “I can’t believe she’s two weeks old, already!” sort of way. But just a general time warp where the days go by so slow (is it 8am yet?), but then, all of the sudden, it’s July 9th – a date that seems so very far away from June 25th. I suppose after spending 10 months counting each week by painful week, to stop counting down to something seems foreign. Instead, we’re counting the days/weeks that she is old… that is, if we’re awake and aware enough to count, and be accurate at that.
We’ve learned so much in these two weeks: RR hates to get her diaper changed, but loves a bath. We also survived her ten-day-old growth spurt, complete with all-night feedings, coupled with a constant wardrobe of crankypants. You cannot properly swaddle a tiny human with hulk-like strength with a receiving blanket that is not square…or does not have chains and locks. She has just as many hiccups on the outside than she did on the inside. Driving anywhere by myself is incredibly, heartbreakingly lonely. There is not enough time in the world to properly (and promptly) thank everyone who has sent encouraging emails, comments, cards, gifts, etc. The animals have been really fantastic with RR – the cats ignore her, and the dog’s only vice is stealing the pacifier if it’s left unattended, or waiting at her feet for her to drop it. The dog also gets up with every night feeding to supervise and lay at our feet.
I would have loved having a son, but having a daughter is bringing me more joy than I could have ever imagined. You would think, being butch and pregnant, that I would have stereotypically craved a son to sit and watch football with, or dress up in tiny blue button-up shirts. But I’ve never been so delighted to buy pink outfits and shirts with ladybugs on them… although mostly, she lounges about in her diaper and a plain white t-shirt. Classic. I love our all-girl household, and can’t wait to put her in her Chris Cooley onesie come September.
In other news, being a parent means getting pooped on (sometimes several times), and not caring. There you have it.