let it slide, let your troubles fall behind you
Dear Moira. My last baby. Your first eight weeks of life have been some of the most remarkable weeks of mine. Parenting the second time around is so much easier; we aren’t convinced that every squeak means an ailment or that every false move is going to scar you for life. You seem to sense that confidence and respond with an easy, sweet manner that everyone can feel. Everyone who holds you agrees: you exude such calm that it can’t help but soothe anyone who cradles you.
I told people when your sister was born that Maggie was an easy baby; in a lot of ways she was. But she didn’t sleep well–didn’t nap easily, woke up three and four times a night until she was old enough to walk. But you? You sleep, and you sleep fantastically well. Getting you soothed enough to nap is usually just a matter of snuggling you close in the wrap. You fall asleep after a ten-minute meal at 4:30 in the morning–usually your only wakeup–and stay asleep until dawn starts to cast light over our room. It’s magical. So are you.
let it shine until you feel it all around you
You’re my little heat-seeking missile. For the first three weeks you slept wedged into my armpit; I didn’t sleep so well for fear I’d suffocate you, but there was no problem. We eventually eased you into your bed for most of the night but you generally sleep best wrapped in someone’s arms. We cuddle…and cuddle…and cuddle…and it’s wondrous.
and i don’t mind; if it’s me you need to turn to we’ll get by
It’s something of a relief that you sleep and cuddle so reliably. We’re able to go on outings without having to stop every half-hour to figure out a way to nurse. And you are a champion nurser–thirteen pounds already and filling out six-month clothes. Nursing isn’t quite like riding a bike; it’s more like doing a familiar dance with a new partner. There are idiosyncrasies to contend with and difficulties with second babies aren’t unheard of. Not you. When we put you to the breast it was more like “Stand back, Mom. I got this.” You latched like a champion the very first time and never looked back. Feeding you has been easy. It’s been a pleasure. We are so lucky, you and I. We’ll do this a long time.
it’s the heart that really matters in the end
I love that photo. All our hats for babies your age look delightfully goofy. I just put you in Maggie’s hats and call it good.
our lives are made in these small hours
these little wonders, these twists & turns of fate
Moira, I wrote before that I didn’t know how good life with a baby could be and I didn’t. It’s unfair to compare you to your sister; I brought my own neuroses and stressors into my early relationship with your sister and while I was a good mother to her, I was terrified. I’m not anymore. Now there’s only joy. You made me a better mother than I was; you made me better for you and for Maggie.
time falls away, but these small hours
My love, my little wonder. You make me laugh. You fill my arms with solid, perfect warmth. Your love smells like milky breath and looks like a cheek pressed against my arm and I ache when I have to give your father his turn. When I think I can’t love your sister any more, she looks at you and rushes to give you kisses and tuck you in with her special blanket so you’ll stay warm, and I think I’ll explode from the force of loving you both.
Most of all, sweet girl, you healed my heart. You fixed something in me that I didn’t know was broken. You gave me the confidence to keep moving forward and the knowledge that while it goes fast (it does, it goes by so fast) this time is still mine to enjoy. I can’t wait to see what comes next, my sweet love.
these small hours still remain
(italicized lines are lyrics from Rob Thomas’ “Little Wonders”)