Memories of a Momma

Life is going by so quickly these days. She is already seven weeks old, nearly two months, and while one day blurs into the next and I feel like everything is the same over and over again, I know that she is changing and growing with each passing moment. So, during one of these short pauses called "naps", I sit down to reflect on all that has been happening. Some things, some moments, stand out in my memory. Things I don't want to forget, ever:

The faces she makes during the morning feeding, as she's waking up slowly for the day. She scrunches her face, pulling away for a massive full-body stretch, only to realize she's no longer eating and immediately head-butt her food source.

Her wide-eyed, open-mouthed, entire-face smiles.

The man-sized toots and burps that come out of her little girl's body. And not just any man, they are dadda-sized!

"Nuk wars": When she spits her Nuk out about .05 seconds before she's asleep, waking herself up and sending herself into grunt-whimper-wail; it's the exhausted drawing of straws to help her find it, so that she can fall asleep. "I've got the next one if you go this time," hoping of course that there won't be a next one.

The time she was searching for her Nuk in the crib, rooting around feverishly with her mouth and exerting so much effort that she massively tooted at the same time. It happens to the best of us, honey.

The feeling I got when she first made eye contact while nursing. Ditto her first mid-feeding smile. Like I was the hero of the world...or at least of hers.

The way her little tush wiggles around in the air while she's falling asleep or waking up on her belly.

The way her face lights up when dadda talks to her after a long day with just momma.

The first time she tracked me with her eyes, long enough to watch me leave the room, resulting in actual fussing because she missed me.

The time she was eating peacefully and completely startled herself by giving a particularly loud suck. Full-body startle reflex included. She never even opened her eyes.

The particularly messy diaper changes, which we affectionately refer to by the number of wipes they require, i.e. "that was a four-wiper!"

How she loves to have her little fists up in the air, whether she's sleeping or hanging out, and when she flings them up when she's startled, we pretend she's saying "Glory to God!"

The enjoyment of watching her discover every little thing about this great big world. Things that we grown-ups take for granted, but which are truly amazing - like how we can move our hands around and kick our feet because of our muscles and brains, and drop things on the floor because of gravity.

The gradual emergence of her little (big?) personality - strong-willed and vocal, knowing what she wants and when she wants it. She's her momma's daughter, and will give us a run for our money when she turns 14.

The moments we share when I tell her that I love her soooo much. And when I tell her that reason I love her is not because she's beautiful, smart, or talented, but because God made her and gave her to me. I'm certain she understands, even when she gazes up at me with crossed eyes.


The sweetness of her dadda holding her and cuddling her, oohing and aahing over every blink and twitch and grunt. And the cuteness of his "baby voice" as he talks to her in "her language".


The moments are like grains of sand slipping through my fingers. The more tightly I close my hands around them, the fewer I hold onto. Already I have difficulty remembering the sweet feeling of her snuggling and sleeping on my chest those first few weeks. So I awake each day with open hands for the sand to flow over, watching the grains rush by and hoping that a few will be left in the cracks of my fingers for me to admire again, and remember. Or at least that the great growing, gathering of sand will be beautiful when I reach the end and look back.

And with that, this brief pause in the rush comes to an end because she is waking yet again...