Friday, 21 August 2009
Le premier mois avec Mademoiselle Eloise
You are a month old. Ok, actually you are older than a month by 5 days because I’ve been too busy squeezing you in my arms, or wiping your butt, or singing you songs or watching Desperate Housewives while nursing you.
I remember when I was younger adults would tell me how fast time flies and to enjoy being a kid while I could. Of course I thought they were crazy. Being a kid takes forever. Whether it’s waiting for your birthday or waiting to use the bathroom time is often at a slow crawl. It wasn’t until I went into labour that I finally realized what those adults were talking about, ever since then time is like roller skates on crack whizzing by me at neck break speeds. This scares me. Sometimes I hold you in my arms and pull you close, almost willing you to morph back into my body, trying to memorize your funny little face because I am so aware that tomorrow you will be 6 and heading off to big kid school and the day after that you’ll be 12 and asking me about boys and a week after that you’ll be asking me for advice on your mortgage.
You are a lady who likes to keep her parents on their toes. Routine does not suit you, chaos and the element of surprise seem to be your comfort zone. One night you’ll go to sleep at 8:30pm the next night 1am. Some days you’ll take deep long naps, others you will go from 9am to 6pm without shutting your eyes once, seemingly laughing at the baby books that say you need 18 hours of sleep to function. You do however wake up at 4am almost on the dot every night.
You also take ages to finish a meal. Recently you’ve been having a leisurely 3 hour long feed before going to bed. 3 hours is a long time to take to drink a glass of milk. But I am rewarded with these incredible little smiles after you’re all full up. In the past week they have turned into the occasional laugh. A mild breathy chuckle with your eyes closed. I keep on meaning to try and get this laugh on camera but I think part of me doesn’t want to share it with the rest of the world. These little laughs feel like you are rewarding me for patiently sitting there for hours at a time while you gnaw on my breast.
When your father changes your diaper he sings New York New York to you, and despite the fact it sounds like Serge Gainsbourg’s cat is trying miserably to do a Frank Sinatra impression, you adore it. I quickly fell in love with his impossibly thick French accent and it looks like you will not be able to escape his Gallic charms either.
You are growing faster than I would ever have imagined. Becoming stronger, more vocal, more expressive. One day you will be a giant compared to how big you are now. Until then it looks like you’re still going to have to take orders from Mickey.