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The rough first draft of something I'm working on for Kaylee. . .
Right now I wake up at 4 a.m. to the very uncomfortable knowledge that my water just broke.
Your dad is telling me to not worry about feeding the cats, he'll come back to do it later, just get in the car so we can go to the hospital now please.
I'm biting down on a washcloth to get through the contractions.
Your dad is silently considering yelling at the lady giving the epidural because this is the fourth time she's tried to get the needle in.
I'm very, very mellow and tipsy and can barely feel a thing below the waist.
I see you for the first time-- just your foot, looking so purple-- and then I hear that the cord's wrapped around your neck and I'm as freaked out as the drugs will let me be until I know you're okay.
They bring you to me and I can't decide whether I'm thrilled to finally hold you or terrified that I'll drop you or just flat-out exhausted.
My younger brother holds you for the first time, in the same hospital where I first held him.
Your grandma and your Aunt Ashley stay with me for a few days since your dad has to go right back to work at his new job.
I'm calling mom, crying, because you're crying and I've tried everything and don't know what else to do.
I curl up with you on the couch, and the cats curl up with us, watching you warily.
You don't come close to fitting into the peace-sign onesie your Aunt Kathy sent you yet, but we put you in it anyway and take pictures.
I'm getting some help to calm down the chaos in my head, because even though the idea of talking to other people about it terrifies me, you're more important.
You're a month old, and we've taken about 30,000 pictures of you so far.
Even when you're in the middle of a temper tantrum, I can turn on Casino Royale and you calm right down.
You get frustrated when you can't roll over.
You need to play with someone's hair as you're falling asleep.
I think you've inherited my complexion-- the instant you start to cry, or laugh, your face goes from pale to beet red.
You're pulling yourself up and trying to walk before you even get crawling fully mastered.
As we're shopping, you spot the fish tanks and start grinning and clapping.
We take you to an Aquarium, and you're in heaven.
You have an entire bookshelf full of books and you can't even read yet.
You have not yet learned self-preservation: you jump off chairs and couches and climb coffee tables and generally terrify me.
You flail and smile and point whenever you see a dog.
You toddle up to where Zot is lounging on the floor, crouch next to him and rest your head on his stomach, and it's the cutest thing I've ever seen.
Playing with hair has morphed into pulling hair.
I'm cutting my hair shorter than it's ever been to help you break the habit.
You love toddling around in the backyard and trying to catch up to the stray cats.
At almost sixteen months, you spend the whole night in your room without one of us having to get up and go to you.
Right now, as I start this project, you're asleep and I really should be.
Right now I wake up at 4 a.m. to the very uncomfortable knowledge that my water just broke.
Your dad is telling me to not worry about feeding the cats, he'll come back to do it later, just get in the car so we can go to the hospital now please.
I'm biting down on a washcloth to get through the contractions.
Your dad is silently considering yelling at the lady giving the epidural because this is the fourth time she's tried to get the needle in.
I'm very, very mellow and tipsy and can barely feel a thing below the waist.
I see you for the first time-- just your foot, looking so purple-- and then I hear that the cord's wrapped around your neck and I'm as freaked out as the drugs will let me be until I know you're okay.
They bring you to me and I can't decide whether I'm thrilled to finally hold you or terrified that I'll drop you or just flat-out exhausted.
My younger brother holds you for the first time, in the same hospital where I first held him.
Your grandma and your Aunt Ashley stay with me for a few days since your dad has to go right back to work at his new job.
I'm calling mom, crying, because you're crying and I've tried everything and don't know what else to do.
I curl up with you on the couch, and the cats curl up with us, watching you warily.
You don't come close to fitting into the peace-sign onesie your Aunt Kathy sent you yet, but we put you in it anyway and take pictures.
I'm getting some help to calm down the chaos in my head, because even though the idea of talking to other people about it terrifies me, you're more important.
You're a month old, and we've taken about 30,000 pictures of you so far.
Even when you're in the middle of a temper tantrum, I can turn on Casino Royale and you calm right down.
You get frustrated when you can't roll over.
You need to play with someone's hair as you're falling asleep.
I think you've inherited my complexion-- the instant you start to cry, or laugh, your face goes from pale to beet red.
You're pulling yourself up and trying to walk before you even get crawling fully mastered.
As we're shopping, you spot the fish tanks and start grinning and clapping.
We take you to an Aquarium, and you're in heaven.
You have an entire bookshelf full of books and you can't even read yet.
You have not yet learned self-preservation: you jump off chairs and couches and climb coffee tables and generally terrify me.
You flail and smile and point whenever you see a dog.
You toddle up to where Zot is lounging on the floor, crouch next to him and rest your head on his stomach, and it's the cutest thing I've ever seen.
Playing with hair has morphed into pulling hair.
I'm cutting my hair shorter than it's ever been to help you break the habit.
You love toddling around in the backyard and trying to catch up to the stray cats.
At almost sixteen months, you spend the whole night in your room without one of us having to get up and go to you.
Right now, as I start this project, you're asleep and I really should be.
