Right now.

You slept nearly nine blissful hours last night. And if it weren’t for the reemergence of snot, I guessing you might have slept longer. Few things give me as much peace as watching you sleep. Round cheeks. Mouth slightly ajar. Still eyelashes. Soft breathes. I find great satisfaction knowing that your body is resting, your brain developing.

After Gram fed you 6 ounces at 5:00 a.m. and Daddy poured another 3 ounces, I held you until you fell asleep again. I pull you as close as my long arms will let me, your face snuggled to my chest. Experts say that babies can smell their mothers. I’m not sure if that’s true, but there have been several times when you’ve fallen asleep in my arms with your nose buried in my shirt. I look at that nose and think of its profile in the sonogram photos.

In those moments, I feel so blessed and still reel with the disbelief that you are in our lives. While I loved you from the moment I knew you were growing in my tummy, I admit in just the last several weeks, the shock of your arrival has slowly given way to even more love. I love that. You are beautiful and smart and funny and loving and perfect. I love loving little you.

You also slobber a lot and practically stuff your hands into your mouth any chance you get. You like to jabber and what I like to consider singing. Your first week with Gram and Ms. Kathy went exceptionally well, even though you were coming off two weeks of sneeze-y-snotty-coughing-tired sick. Seriously. That experience had me looking to buy a bubble in which to keep you from any and all germs. We slept on the bathroom floor for two weeks, steaming the snot out of you at various point. You handled the saline spray and the snot sucker like a champ, but it was torture for your daddy and me.

Ms. Kathy is so good with you. Hannah, Jacob, Ethan and Sarah love you so much. I get happy thinking that these darling little people are you first friends. I couldn’t have chosen any better for you.

Gram is an expert analyst of your poo, when, amount, description. I crack up at her mini-obsession with your bowels. She sings to you and rocks you, while Daddy and I miss you while we’re at work.

And that is what I’m pondering these days: work, specifically my work at the office. I feel like I get to see you so little and this time will be gone before I can scramble to savor what’s left of each week. I worry that I’m not the one teaching you things, then I worry if I even know enough to teach you anything. I worry that Daddy will be the one who gets to have the most fun with you because I’m too busy making sure you have clean clothes that fit and clean bottles that feed you enough healthy goodness fast enough. I research a lot about anything you may be experiencing: Gas? Teething? Rolling over? Height & weight? Developmental skills? Best toys? Best activities? Colds? Milestones? I plan a lot for the household, trying to keep healthy, homemade food ready and the laundry done. I’m trying to figure out when to get family photos taken and how to celebrate your first birthday. I wonder if you’re ready for rice cereal and if you need to move up to the next size diaper. 

And then I think about the distant future. We want to give you a good education at Holy Spirit, but will you be one of those kids who resents us for giving you the Catholic faith? I want you to love reading but will you hate it? Can I help you appreciate museums, gardens and philanthropy? Will you love sports? Will you be a safe driver? Will you want to go to college?

Ugh. I just feel so inept trying to help you navigate this world, which makes the faith all the more important.