Five months ago today, I walked into a hospital just after daybreak. I was teary signing in–anxious and overwhelmed. Within just two hours, I saw you. And I recognized you, as if I had always known you, as if your face had forever been a part of my memory.
You’ve grown wildly the past few weeks. You roll and scoot and twist along the floor, no longer contained by the small blankets I lay down. You officially conquered your swaddle. Last night was your first night without it, and you quickly rolled over onto your stomach and slept through the night. You babble and coo constantly; I think you may be a talker like your aunt.
We battle over naptime most days. You squirm and screech when you begin to fall asleep sometimes, but you usually settle down for me.
There’s a rhythm to our days now. Long morning walks, playtime in the floor, afternoon nap, evenings outside so you can look at the trees. Then there are days where it doesn’t work that way at all, and that’s okay.
I realize you’ll never remember the moments that make up these days, weeks, and months, but I hope someday you know how much joy it gives me to be the one rocking you each day, changing almost every diaper, giving almost every meal, watching the subtle changes in your behavior and laugh.
I love you. I love you. I love you.