Our Story

_Ken says that I should post. I agree, but I think I have a perfection complex. I don’t want to get into posting because if I write that often, I won’t be able to make everything perfect. I realize that blogging isn’t about perfection, but with my personality, it is hard to not make it that way. All this to say that I am going to make an effort to blog. There are so many things I could write about._

_I’ve been thinking about this idea for a while, and I finally decided that I want to write monthly letters to my daughter, Dahlia. By the way, this is kind of a stolen idea from “Heather Armstrong”:http://www.dooce.com. I really enjoy reading her letters to her daughter Leta, and considering the frightening speed with which the first month has passed, I want to make sure I get some of my thoughts down in writing. And now all of you can read them too!_

Dearest little Dahlia,

I can’t believe the first month of your life has passed! Where has all the time gone? All those months of waiting to meet you have ended, and now you’ve been here for 4 weeks already. Everyone was right when they said it would be worth the wait.

So far, I consider us extremely blessed with your easy-going personalty. You have proven to be an enthusiastic nurser and sleepy “car baby”, you seem to ration your screaming and crying, and sleep in 2-3 hour chunks through the night. Although I enjoy these things, I am fully aware that they can change instantaneously. Some would call this attitude pessimistic. I call it realistic.

I have watched over the past few weeks as you have gained over 3 pounds, shed your umbilical stump to join the world of “innies”, blown out your first (and your second and third and fourth….) diaper, and have practically outgrown all the yellow, green and white newborn clothing. Don’t worry though, all of our relatives and friends have ensured that you have enough pink clothing to last most of your first year. Of all the things you have to worry about in this world, little girl, don’t ever worry that you don’t have a family that loves you. And I don’t just mean that they send you nice clothes. You have been born into a family — both genetic and spiritual — of people that care enough to travel out to visit you frequently, send you thoughtful cards and gifts, supply us all with delicious meals, do our housework, and generally make a big fuss over you. They are truly interested in investing in your life. This is, of course, what family does for one another, but I’m telling you that it is an unusual thing to have family that really cares for you.

I swear that you smiled at me this morning as I blearily leaned over you on the changing table at 3AM. How cool is that? Not only do you want to hang out with me so much that you wake up at 3AM to do it, but you actually smile to let me know you appreciate it. Or to let me know that you are about to fill the clean diaper I just put on you. Seriously, I think we need to talk about this diapering thing: it’s happened often enough for me to point out that you have picked up the bad habit of pooping and peeing on us as soon as we remove the old diaper. I like to think it is because you just want a wardrobe change, but if that’s your worst fault, I can live with it. I’m imagining you as a teenager in the mall…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I know that you will be growing up in a hurry, and there is nothing I can do about that but enjoy what I have while I have it. This last month together has been great, and I am so excited about the privilege of watching you change every day. So for now I will savor the grunts, squeaks and quacks that you make. I will count your toes, kiss your fuzzy head, and take time to examine your tiny fingers. I will enjoy our cuddle time and laugh at your ridiculous faces. It is strange that one day you are just pregnant, and the next day you are a parent. It seems to me that while parenthood happens suddenly, becoming a good parent is definitely a process. Dad and I love you very much, and we promise to work hard to be good parents.

Love,
Mom

It’s amazing to me the change that takes place after the birth of your first child. The world suddenly finds itself a new axis, pivoting around your little girl (at least in the scope of your sleep-deprived, perpetually distracted Daddy brain). You get offended when passers-by don’t stop and stare in wonder at your baby — whose attention you will stop at no limits to get, whose sleep patterns are constantly the subject of water cooler conversations, and whose happy glances and jerky motor responses have displaced every clever sitcom.

The realization that, in fact, all of humanity perpetuates by producing these tiny creatures and that countless men and women have had children is almost too much to bear. And you realize that this is actually how normal people think and you’re vaguely aware that a previous you — a now very distant you — used to think think exactly the same way. _What’s the big deal about children?_ That previous you had enough tact to never actually say that out loud, but the thought permeated many conversations with parents, and you wince at your open ignorance.

But now, here you are on day 21 AD (After Dahlia), hoping to get a social glance while changing diapers in the middle of the night, sharing tips for calming techniques with your family, and turning into a big mush whenever you get a quiet moment with this new little person.

Yesterday was my first day back at the office and, not surprisingly, our hardest day with Dahlia yet. D had been up with Sarah every hour from 11 PM until 4 AM (when I stayed up with her and flipped through the news of the day). It didn’t get much better after that, either. I came home to a frustrated Schmoo, a dozing baby, and an anxious dog. Dahlia hadn’t slept all day, wanting to be fed every hour.

I made some dinner and we sat down in front of The Office so Sarah could eat in peace and take her mind off our little budding fascist. Around eight, she and Dahlia went down for a nap while I worked in the living room. It was only an hour later when Sarah brought the fussy baby out, dropped her in my lap, and went back to the bedroom.

Dahlia and I hung out for a little while, but soon enough she was grumbling and crying. I changed her diaper, rocked her, swaddled her, shushed her, and soothed her. After about ten minutes of this, she’d either veg out and stare or fall asleep. I sat on the couch with her in my arms, only to have her flip out a few minutes later, and we started the whole routine over again.

I figured that if I could quiet Dahlia down, she really couldn’t have been _that_ hungry (babies have an uncanny ability to let you know when they’re really in dire need). So we kept dancing on until about 10:30 PM when she was totally inconsolable. I woke Sarah up to feed the baby — she had slept about two hours at that point.

We went to sleep again around eleven, only to have Dahlia fuss again at midnight. I scooped her up out of her crib and went back to hop around the living room. I was just able to keep her from exploding in angry cries until 1 AM, giving Sarah another two hours of sleep. Sarah sent me back to bed so I could get some rest before heading into the office this morning.

I was exhausted, and I overslept. But today was a much, much better day for Sarah and the baby.

The first few days after your birth, we were running on adrenaline. All of our family within a two hour drive came out to meet you; my sister even volunteered to change your diaper. Grandma’s been here the last couple of days to help by making a meal or washing the dishes so we can sleep. But last night, things finally slowed down as we all learned what the next few weeks are going to be like.

You were so alert! I changed your diaper after you started fussing in your crib. I expected you to fall asleep after I swaddled you, but instead you opened your eyes around 11 PM, and just kept looking around. You looked at your Daddy for what felt like an eternity before turning to watch me upload your photos into Flickr. I made iTunes do some cool things on the screen, but you weren’t impressed. You stared inquisitively at my favorite stripey shirt — the pattern fascinating your growing newborn mind — right before you ejected 3 ounces of milk onto it.

Afterwards, you were the frumpiest we’ve seen you yet: hungry and in pain. Mama winced in sympathy, knowing how confusing your state must have been to you, and helped by burping and feeding you. She sent me to bed at 2 AM so she could take the night shift. I felt bad, but we both knew I needed it. She’s tough, your Mom: she used to do 1- and 2-hour overnight checks at the equine clinic, so she knows how to survive on a little sleep.