Today my sweet Lucille is one month old. A month. I’m not
entirely cognizant of how time has tucked into itself. We are moving through
the days and nights somewhere caught between mild lucidity and a foggy haze;
the leaves on the maple tree out back have long since reached their peak and
just a few are left clinging desperately to the branches. Friends have walked
into our home to marvel at and meet our daughter, bringing with them delicious
food, and gifts for the babe. There have been phone calls home to California to
talk and Skype with the west coast grandparents, and more diapers than I can
count have filled our garbage cans. I’m certain I’ve looked at the clock in
Lucy’s room on more than one occasion, forcing my wickedly tired eyes to focus
on the big hand and little hand, only to realize it’s the wee hours of another
morning.
This is first-time parenthood. Overwhelming, exotic,
all-consuming, and exhausting. I’m still not certain how it’s possible that the
honeyed smelling baby asleep next to me (as I write this), is ours. Literally ours of our flesh. It’s almost too much to comprehend and maybe that’s why
it’s easier for folks to call babies, miracles. Then there’s no need to explain
or understand.
I knew going into this – parenthood – that it would be a
topsy-turvy time in our lives. The magnitude of just how completely a baby can
turn your world upside down is humbling. It will bring you to your knees and
the tears, oh my. The tears come for both good reason and no reason at all. You can read as much as you think is
necessary, research, and prepare, but actually living a newborn is an experience almost impossible to articulate.
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The afternoon looks a lot like the morning, and we all
look forward to Big Red getting home.
Dinner is not always a tandem event, sometimes he eats while I mind the
baby and then we switch. If we’re lucky, she’ll be napping and we can get
dinner down together. She goes to bed
after her last “evening” feeding,somewhere between 8:30 and 10:30 pm. And then
it’s quiet time for the both of us for a short while before I inevitably
succumb to the lead weights strapped to my eyelids. Big Red handles the “dream” feed and then I
take care of the crazy 3-4 AM –ish feeding.
And then somehow yesterday becomes today and we do it all
over again.
There are moments of pure bliss and joy when I look at
her, especially when she’s fallen asleep on my chest and her little body is a
delicious warmth curled into mine. At the moment, nothing could be better and I
want little else than to hold her this way for hours on end – forever, really. I inhale her scent and rub my cheek against
the silky softness of her head. Then there moments of wanting to press pause
and take a break, wanting to get out of the house at will, wanting to take a
shower, wanting to eat a proper lunch.
Life with a newborn is a double-edged sword, and in the fissures of
total exasperating frustration, I quietly tell myself that this phase is tough
and that we will get through it because it’s just what you do.
There is a sense of pressure though to “enjoy every moment.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told this in the past month. Show me a new mom who actually enjoys every single moment and I’ll give you my next paycheck. Not realistic AT ALL. That bar is failure in the making. There are more moments of joy than there are frustration, but they certainly don't negate the frustration. That's reality. My good friend Dacia sent me a text the other day and it went something like this:
Nobody knows what the f*ck they’re doing
with this parenting
thing.
In the words of Phil Dunphy, “You fake your way though
it.
And you just hope you don’t raise a serial killer.”
True that.

As we move into the hibernation and stillness of winter, I
remind myself that my best is the best for Lucille (thanks, Anna), and all that
she needs right now is to be kept warm, fed, clean and loved.
I am certain my daughter, my daughter, is receiving all four – especially love. In spades,
she is loved. Happy one month, my sweet Lucille.
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