12 Weeks a Mom

There are so many things that have happened in the last twelve weeks. So many things I wished so badly I could capture forever and never forget.  I've taken more pictures in the last twelve weeks than I have, probably, in my whole life. It is clearly a measly attempt to bottle this time up so I'll never, ever forget.

I never want to forget the wet weight of her warm body, seconds after she left mine. Or the blinking way she stared up at me, tongue flicking in and out already ready to eat. Or the first bleary days in the hospital where we were never sure exactly what time it was or if it was day or night. Or the way he bounced her and walked her around the hospital room, tears silently streaming from his eyes. I never, ever want to forget the transformation of watching my husband become a father.

I never want to forget how he walked her proudly into the house and straight to her nursery - a room we so desperately wanted to fill for so many years. He sat in the chair and rocked her and cried. Or that first evening at home and our first family worship time. And then our first night at home when I sat in the rocking chair in the nursery and just cried at the overwhelming task of keeping her alive.

And then all the nights that followed.

I never want to forget my mom's selfless sacrifice in that first week of Lynn's life - all the dishes, meals, cleaning, meals, and reassuring words. What a comfort it was to have my mom here.  I never want to forget watching my brother meet his niece for the first time and the way he looked at her.

Those early days were such a blur and I knew they were slipping past and I wanted so badly to grasp onto them knowing I never could.

The cracked nipples, the bad latch, the tears and formula and trips to Portland and the pumping and the tears, the tears. The healing cream and the feed-by-feed improvement.  The fight and the fight and the feeding her from my body at long last.

The lifting of the clouds sometime around week 3 or 4. The first smile where I dashed up the stairs at 6am to interrupt his workout so he could see it too, 3.5 weeks old. The way she looked all swaddled up tight, the way her crib completely dwarfed her once we moved her out of the cosleeper. I never want to forget the way she stretched her arms as soon as the swaddle was undone.

I never want to forget the way her lips pucker when the pacifier or the bottle is removed from her mouth or the way she stretches her neck and coos when she's particularly happy.  I never want to forget how engaging she finds the ceiling fan or her dad's t-shirt design.


And now it's October. The month of the anniversary of my last period - the last time I felt that kind of devastation.  The month of the anniversary of her conception. The month our world shifted on its axis.

And now she's nearly three months old and I can't quite remember life without her and I'm not sure I want to.  If only my memory could hold all of these feelings and experiences and the smell of her head and the grasp of her small (but growing so fast) hand.  My heart is so full. This mom thing is so deeply challenging and so incredibly wonderful, I can hardly comprehend it.  I catch my breath often as I consider the magnitude of this gift and the weight of this responsibility.

This tiny human - one part me, one part Cole - has been entrusted to us.  I never want to forget what an amazing gift she is.