Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Happy 6 Week Birthday!
Six weeks ago today, my daughter was born.
Writing that sentence just now was weird on so many levels. First of all, six weeks? How is that even possible? It simultaneously feels like ten seconds ago and like I can't remember a time when she wasn't with us. Second of all, my daughter? I have a daughter? Technically, that makes me somebody's mother. That's just bizarre.
When I first found out I was pregnant, I didn't believe it. I kept the pee stick on the bathroom counter all night so I could go back to check on it. Then I bought three more tests. I lined them all up next to the soap dish with their pink lines in clear view and refused to throw them out, even when my husband pointed out that it was kind of less-than-sanitary to keep something I'd peed on.
The 12 week ultrasound helped a little because we could see the baby's big jelly bean of a head and stubby little arms. It was having a party in there, arching its tiny back and bouncing off the bottom of my uterus again and again. And there was no denying the heartbeat, which sounded exactly like a tiny horse, galloping underwater.
At 20 weeks, we found out that the baby was a girl. We saw her yawn and stretch on the ultrasound screen and it all still continued to be absolutely unbelievable. But I thought surely, surely, when she was born it would hit home that I was a genuine, certified mom with an actual, real life baby.
Six weeks later though, it's still sinking in. She's actually here and actually true. She's just too good. Too little. Too perfect. I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and watch her in the bassinet. I focus on the rise and fall of her chest to prove to myself that she's breathing and that she's not just a doll somebody put there as a cruel joke.
When she yawns and groans and stretches her soft little sausage arms over her head, I sometimes think my heart is going to shatter. When I nurse her, she makes tiny sighing noises every time she swallows. I want to catch them in a bottle to save for later.
Already, she knows how to make one hundred and two funny faces. There's eat-face, frustrated-face, sleepy face, waking up face (there are actually about eighty sub-versions of waking-up-face alone). And, when she smiles, (even if it is just gas, like so many cynical people like to pretend) my eyes go all bleary.
I want to memorize my little girl, because I'm scared that by the time I realize it's really all happening, it'll already be over. So, welcome to my blog for the baby who was formerly the embryo known as Pushkin and is now the real, live baby known as Mae. I guess it's my attempt to capture whatever little bits and pieces of the next year I can and get them down in words so I won't lose them or forget them.
Will maybe write more tomorrow, depending on whether or not she naps much.
p.s. Don't worry. I'm not always so smushy and gushy. But 6 week birthdays are a big deal and I'm feeling a little hormonal. Maybe tomorrow I'll "get real" and tell you about how Mae pooped THREE times today before I could get the new diaper on and I muttered,"shit, shit, shit" (only realizing later how hillariously appropriate that was) while frantically reaching for the wipes which were hopelessly inadequate in the face of so much poo anyway.
Writing that sentence just now was weird on so many levels. First of all, six weeks? How is that even possible? It simultaneously feels like ten seconds ago and like I can't remember a time when she wasn't with us. Second of all, my daughter? I have a daughter? Technically, that makes me somebody's mother. That's just bizarre.
When I first found out I was pregnant, I didn't believe it. I kept the pee stick on the bathroom counter all night so I could go back to check on it. Then I bought three more tests. I lined them all up next to the soap dish with their pink lines in clear view and refused to throw them out, even when my husband pointed out that it was kind of less-than-sanitary to keep something I'd peed on.
The 12 week ultrasound helped a little because we could see the baby's big jelly bean of a head and stubby little arms. It was having a party in there, arching its tiny back and bouncing off the bottom of my uterus again and again. And there was no denying the heartbeat, which sounded exactly like a tiny horse, galloping underwater.
At 20 weeks, we found out that the baby was a girl. We saw her yawn and stretch on the ultrasound screen and it all still continued to be absolutely unbelievable. But I thought surely, surely, when she was born it would hit home that I was a genuine, certified mom with an actual, real life baby.
Six weeks later though, it's still sinking in. She's actually here and actually true. She's just too good. Too little. Too perfect. I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and watch her in the bassinet. I focus on the rise and fall of her chest to prove to myself that she's breathing and that she's not just a doll somebody put there as a cruel joke.
When she yawns and groans and stretches her soft little sausage arms over her head, I sometimes think my heart is going to shatter. When I nurse her, she makes tiny sighing noises every time she swallows. I want to catch them in a bottle to save for later.
Already, she knows how to make one hundred and two funny faces. There's eat-face, frustrated-face, sleepy face, waking up face (there are actually about eighty sub-versions of waking-up-face alone). And, when she smiles, (even if it is just gas, like so many cynical people like to pretend) my eyes go all bleary.
I want to memorize my little girl, because I'm scared that by the time I realize it's really all happening, it'll already be over. So, welcome to my blog for the baby who was formerly the embryo known as Pushkin and is now the real, live baby known as Mae. I guess it's my attempt to capture whatever little bits and pieces of the next year I can and get them down in words so I won't lose them or forget them.
Will maybe write more tomorrow, depending on whether or not she naps much.
p.s. Don't worry. I'm not always so smushy and gushy. But 6 week birthdays are a big deal and I'm feeling a little hormonal. Maybe tomorrow I'll "get real" and tell you about how Mae pooped THREE times today before I could get the new diaper on and I muttered,"shit, shit, shit" (only realizing later how hillariously appropriate that was) while frantically reaching for the wipes which were hopelessly inadequate in the face of so much poo anyway.
