One month


Miriam is now officially one month old, and entering what the books are referring to as “Hell Week.” Daddy, Mr. Worst Case Scenario, fully expects her to start flying around the room with her head spinning and spewing hellfire. As her mama, I am pretty confident that MY baby is so perfect and precious that she will skip right by Hell Week. So far she’s trying to prove both of us right. She has her calm sweet days, and even flashes us some of those mysterious smiles (quickly followed by a worried look, because wtf are my neurons doing to my face?)  And she has her screaming tortures of the damned moments. Fortunately those are short-lived. Some evenings she’s just mostly fussing, she’ll nap briefly then stir and fuss and whimper, earning her her new nickname: General Fuster.

I never really understood why parents go all apeshit and post on Facebook when their kids hit completely routine and expected milestones, just like 107 billion other humans before them: like rolling over (I go weeks without doing this in my life, is it really even a necessary skill?), first words (as if baby has something important to say that we haven’t heard before?), first steps (just more work for mom now). But now I think I get it. It’s those little things that reassure you that your little human is indeed developing normally, that you don’t have to worry (for today at least), that maybe you’re doing something right. And with each little change you’re getting a little closer to really seeing that new personality and that new person emerge. I’m not saying those things are Facebook-worthy because no one but her parents are truly impressed, I’m still firmly against over-sharing and mommy-jacking on Facebook.

So far this week, Miri has lost all the hair on the top of her head (knit faster, Mama, need more hats!), now tracks things like faces as they move, and has perfected her Scream of Rage. I have realized that keeping your sense of humor is sometimes the only way to not burst into tears. But she’s also occasionally sleeping six to seven hours a night, and I’ve seen some squinty-eyed smiles that smoosh my heart into bits. I’ve started using cloth diapers, but that warrants its own post later.

Who, me? Fussy?
Who, me? Fussy?

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