8 weeks, two months, whichever you prefer.

We just weathered our first major storm.  You did just fine, but I am exhausted from worrying.  We were prepared, but my thoughts were tainted with the thought of some outrageous event happening.  A tree coming through the room. Some debris or other from the abandoned neighbour's place becoming a missile in the high breeze and smashing the glass near your bassinet.  None of this happened.  We didn't even lose power, which is a bit of a miracle in itself.  The only inconvenience was intermittent flickering of the power and an inability to go out.  As I rarely have left the home since we brought you home, it isn't exactly a stretch at this time.

Your father stayed home to take care of things around the house, which includes us.  I am eternally grateful for his ability to have energy when I have none.  He took care of you while I caught up on my sleep.

To be honest, part of this fatigue is likely mental rather than physical.  My love for you is so great, it seems to make everything else less lovely.  All that can make it difficult to get things done, as it seems like a futile treadmill of mediocrity.  Then, I see you, and everything is worthwhile.

Last night, we had you on the table, staring up at your papi.  He was saying "hello" to you, and you were mimicking him back.  You match the pitch, and make a great effort towards creating the sounds.  A few weeks ago, close to your 4th week, you were doing just the ö sound.  At this point, you have enough of it that I started to film you, as we heard you get remarkably close three times in a row.  You are extraordinary, which we have known for some time. 

The doctor agrees, you are ahead of your curve in weight and progress. 90% plus in everything, you are Massive.  She noted you are trying to flip over, and remarked at your mimicking ability which she witnessed.  You are pretty awesome, and I never tire of telling you so.  You appear to agree, and enjoy hearing it, as you smile a joyous, toothless grin without fail when told.  You have been smiling in a way that reliably indicates actual social interaction rather than gas pains since 6 weeks for certain.  I suspected it sooner, but you are a bit of a gassy girl. (Much to your father's delight.)

Next week, I start a new job.  I am still nursing, but I will be working towards case management from home.  I have given notice at my previous job, and look forward to being able to be near you while working.  The other job was just too draining to consider parenting effectively after a full day of babysitting adults.  Some day you will understand this.

I don't want to leave you for an hour, let alone 8 hours for training for a few weeks.  I think of how much you have developed and changed in the last 8 weeks, and I lament the idea of missing the smallest new thing you do.  I feel better knowing my parents, your grandmother and the self-christened "grand dude,"will be here for the first week to watch you.  They love you to the limit, and you will feel safe with them.  I almost will be able to concentrate on being a solitary human again.

It has been so long that I have felt symbiotic in my existence with you.  You are sheltered by me and gain your solitary sustenance from my body, and I feel a fragile trust from you.  May I never let you down.  

One Month of Violet

One month ago, a girl named Violet was born in a town once famous for the horticulture of the flowers after which she was named.  The name was chosen by her father, who proposed it as a possible moniker late in the pregnancy.  The mother agreed almost immediately, won by a name that was simultaneously  straightforward yet romantic, having connections to art, spiritualism, literature, and being somewhat rare since the 1910s.  As we are back in the early teens, it seems a good time to revive

I am your mother, Greg is your father, and you are Violet.  These posts are meant for you, as a document of your development.  They will also recall my experience as a parent, as unexpected as that was.

When I say this is unexpected, it is not because you are unwanted.  Quite to the contrary, we love you very much.  When your father & I met, in the glamourous East Village of the city of New York, we were decidedly agreed in remaining child-free.  We lived a life of self-involved decadence, dislocation and frivolity that did not include space for infant care.  If we were to be up at 5 AM, it would be to watch the moon set, not to change a nappy.  I was an artist who kept a day job which allowed me the time and flexibility to travel,  Greg was a musician in a band, a writer, and generally tortured soul who worked with people attempting to detox from heroin.

Within a year, we were living a different life in a rural portion of NYS.  I was in school for nursing, G was working on degrees in english lit & education, and we discovered the intoxicating effect of oxygen.  We refocused on each other, married on the top of one of the mountains which create the Shawangunk ridge, and became a family of two plus rescued monk parrot, Louis.  We bought a house built in 1963 and rescued a mutt who we named Lola.  My realization that G was a remarkable fellow gave me a feeling of cohesion that I had lacked for much of my adult life.

And then there was you.  I have never witnessed a personal pregnancy test switch to positive so rapidly.  Five weeks in was the estimate of my GYN.  I sent a photo of the test to G, who called to report his excitement.  Something had changed inside of our relationship.

It was love, it was you.

It has been a pleasure meeting you.