I am so, so smitten with this little girl. Totally smitten. Irreversibly smitten.
I know, I know, obvious statement is obvious.
1. I'm rather trapped in the house, since she's so very tiny that even with a newborn head cushion insert in her carseat she will bop her head forward and if I'm driving that's impossible to fix safely, and getting the stroller down from the house to the outside involves stairs and having to leave the baby either inside for a second or outside for a second, neither of which is going to happen. Since it's been hot-hot-hot here, it's just as good to wait until Patrick gets home for the help and the dusky temperature anyway, lest my little pale baby (and I) burn to a crisp or drown in the humidity (in Virginia, it'll be like 92 degrees with a matching 92% humidity...lovely!). This means I'm on the Internet a lot, watching Project Runway, and reading every tweet anybody tweets when she's sleeping. This is not to say I'm being lazy although it feels like it -- doing much else is kind of exhausting. The time I had to go downtown to drop off some HR/short-term-disability paperwork just about did me in for the day. But I gather this is normal...I'm looking forward to feeling a little more with-it energy-wise as time goes on. That'll happen right? *flop*
I am immensely thankful for all the help. Immensely. The food, the dishes, going with me to the pediatrician just so I have someone in the back seat to help with the baby while en route... I came down from a nap while my mom (a saint) watched Freddie and discovered she'd not only done dishes but she'd cleaned the dining room table and set dinner for us.
Let it not be said that I've not had a bunch of help. Thank goodness...because I still feel like I got run over half the time. It's driving me a little nuts since I WANT to be more productive but...yeah.
Basically, this is my maternity leave summed up:
(+ bit of this on the side)
2. Having a strawberry-gingery baby means everybody is a total enabler when it comes to me thinking my baby is the cutest of all the babies ever. Look at her haaaaair! everyone in the waiting room squeaks while at the pediatrician. Look at her haaaaaaaaaaair! coo the two separate nurses who popped into her room to pat said red hair. Look at her haaaaaaaaaaaaaair!...I squeal every time I look at it myself. The point is, look at her hair. I practically got myself a Weasley kid (okay, Weasley Lite). I know it may not stay that way, of course, but it does run in Patrick's family. Basically, it's all sorts of cute (although perhaps I'm a little biased and miiiiight think my kid is cute no matter what).
3. The adorable watermelon newborn-size going home onesie I splurged on is still ridiculously too big for my preemie-sized baby AND now it's marked down to $8.79. Womp womp. I laugh about it -- could there be any more stereotypical rookie parent mistake? Glad I didn't splurge on the Rockaroo.
4. Patrick is a rock star (not just the metal drummer variety anymore). Since I gave birth early on the 9th, he was further out from finishing his two summer grad classes than he would have been had she been born around the 24th, which has meant more group work commitments etc. But in addition to that, his employer instituted strongly-encouraged overtime, so he worked 10 extra hours this week including Saturday morning and going in an hour early each day on less sleep. This is really, really good for us since I'm on leave with less pay, obviously, but the whole less-sleep-more-work situation is a bit unfortunate. Yet there's nary a peep of complaint, whereas we all know I would be taking Twitter by storm to air my grievances were our places reversed. I could probably take a cue from him regarding that. Anyway, all this in addition to watching her when I need to get out of the house for bit (exciting trips to Ellwood Thompson's and back!) and taking her while he does schoolwork and I nap for an hour in the evening, etc. The lesson here is obvious: metal drummers are the best and you should try to catch one if you haven't already (protip: just leave a pile of flannel shirts somewhere, maybe place a beer on top of the offering, and one will likely mosey on over to investigate -- they are docile creatures attracted to grunge-plaid and porters).
5. I've woefully fallen back into the horrible horrible habit of peeling at my chapped lips, thus making them more chapped, thus making them more peel-able. I do this out of anxiety. I'm okay, but it sucks to have this bad habit grow worse. I'm hoping I can ease myself out of it once the initial terror/anxiety of babyhaving wears off... Oh god it does wear off, doesn't it? If not, I'm going to be looking all the more ugly-chapped for the rest of eternity. Small price to pay I guess. Poot.
6. What else is there to say? I love our daughter so fiercely. I'm feeding her, and trying to figure out the whole breastfeeding business (I should probably read a book about this womanly art...). I'm sleeping sometimes. All the blissfully normal stuff. I feel like I've climbed this great steep trail and I'm at the top basking in the sun, exhausted but so very, very, finally here. Zzzzzz...