eight weeks

Today Elia is eight weeks old. Eight weeks. How life has shifted in eight weeks.

She's been a bit fussy the past few afternoons. Fussy in a way that frustrates me because she's been such a calm, sweet baby so far. Fussy in a way that makes me wonder if she's ill because diaper changes and feedings and cuddling don't calm the bloodcurdling screams that seem to come out of no where.

But today she is calm again. She is snugly and sweet and relaxed, even as the afternoon ticks away into evening.

And so, I am celebrating eight weeks by reveling in the sweetness of a sleeping baby. My view for the last hour has been of the strands of blonde hair that cover my daughter's perfectly round head and her barely there eyelashes and the tip of her nose.

She is sleeping on my chest despite a half-prepared dinner in the kitchen, laundry that needs to be put away, and lots of tidying to be done. I am indulging in this because she's eight weeks and there is nowhere I'd rather be. Because her being eight weeks means that in four weeks I'll go back to work and snuggling in the afternoon won't be an option every day. Because this stage is fleeting and I know she won't always be so relaxed and willing to sleep in my arms. Because we will always find a way to eat dinner but I might run out of chances to enjoy these moments with my daughter. Because I can't imagine anything more wonderful than the warmth of an infant on my chest.

Happy eight weeks, Elia. I'm so happy to be your mom.

P.S. Happy birthday to my dad! Wishing you the happiest of days.

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