Suddenly I realized that the number of weeks since Emily’s birth is becoming unwieldy. Can that possibly be? So soon? At least the next transition (from months to half-years) can legitimately be put off for another 24-ish months. Right?
Honestly, before having a kid I always thought even saying “my 18-month old” was ridiculous, but now I understand. I don’t want to be that mother who talks about her “78 month-old”, but I would not fault her one bit. When every day is precious, a miracle, an infinite joy, how could you be so callous as to say you have, just, a 2-year-old? The truth is, Emily, you are 107 days old. Ancient, compared to when we first brought you home. A hundred days, a hundred blessings, and I savor every one. I wonder when and if it will all become a blur? Oh yes, my daughter, she’s four decades now. So big!
Pardon the mohawk going on. I hadn’t realized the new haircut would require just a fraction of a second of attention in the mornings. I need to find a good taming gel.
So sleepy. Must. Keep. Playing.