Motherhood is hard. Last night, for reasons I could not discern, Mallory only slept in forty-five minute chunks. Fitfully. By the time I would fall asleep, my face inches from hers, she would be stirring again, her legs frog-kicking my boobs. Then would come the feeding, burping, spitting up, cuddling, changing, re-swaddling, and rocking routine, which only resulted in more restlessness.
Now, of course, she is sound asleep in a sling on my chest after a morning walk. I should be trying to catch some much-needed Z's myself, or cutting her frighteningly sharp fingernails, but instead I'm doing something I rarely get to do these days. Writing reminds me of the person I still am, before I became a mom who sometimes doesn't brush my teeth before sundown.
Motherhood is sweet. When she stares at me after feeding with that look of blissed-out milk-wonder, when she falls asleep curled into my chest, snuggled cozily in her outer womb, when she grins in her sleep and relishes the warm water we bathe her in, it's easy to forget that she just soaked her new outfit in curdled milk.
We sometimes lay in bed and marvel at this little person, our Mallory, who has already changed so much in a month. She's twelve ounces heavier than she was at birth (still so amazingly tiny though). The swelling on her head (from hanging out in the birth canal for HOURS) has gone down. Her skin glows pink and her forehead has erupted in little bumps of baby acne. She smells like sour cream. She is so much lovelier than I could have imagined her, especially now, as she sleeps the sleep of a month-old baby who needs nothing more than her mommy.
Of course, as soon as I lay down with her, her eyes will likely pop right open...