Four Months

I have to write this one down.

When Maggie was just born and liked to clench her fists and flail (more than she does now), she would cock her fist and aim it at my chest while she nursed. We joked that she was “fists of fury” and would pummel me if she didn’t get the milk fast enough. Obviously it wasn’t intentional, but it was really cute.

I forgot all about it until Tom mentioned it tonight.

That makes me so sad. So many moments, so many things that I try to hold onto. I remember how thin her arms used to be, how she used to have a soft layer of fuzz on her skin from the womb. How she would lie against me in the dark and I didn’t dare put her down after she nursed in case she woke up. How I didn’t really want to lie her down. How I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, how I was still so sore from delivering that sitting upright, even with ice and an inflatable donut, was agony. But I still couldn’t move my newborn from my chest because I would have to stop smelling her hair and feeling her breathe against me. Feeling the tiny bird bones in her back against my hand.

Tomorrow my baby is four months old. She babbles and hoots; she can sit up in my lap while we eat out and doesn’t shriek every time she goes in her car seat. It’s really nice, better in some ways than the early newborn days. But I can’t remember everything. It’s too much to remember and even when I write it down I miss things. I don’t want to miss my baby.

It goes so fast.

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