For the first two weeks of Lucy's life, she was an angel. I smugly thought, "Man, I am good at this. All these people griping about newborns are just wimps." Then, on the 14th day, she realized she'd been born. We spent the next 6 weeks in some state of motion: rocking, swaying, swinging, driving. Or occasionally, sitting still on the front lawn, staring the baby monitor, volume turned down (us), but lights flashing red from the screaming (her). It was during this newborn time that I began to think of Lucy as The Beast. As in, "Do not awaken The Beast" or "The Beast is stirring" or "The Beast must eat."
Today's is Milo's 13th day. So far, he has been an angel: a far more organized, calm creature than Lucy was at this stage (could this be the benefit of three more weeks gestation?). And I am just saying, for the record, for all the powers that be, that I am GRATEFUL. Not to be confused with smug.
Humbly,
Kate