The newborn days are so very slippery, sliding from day to night to day. Cora sleeps, she nurses, she may show us her big blue eyes for a moment, and then she drifts off again for another hour or few– snuggled up against me in the Solly wrap during the day, swaddled in her bassinet at night. Feed, burp, change, occasional bath here and there, sleep, and what do you know, a whole month has passed.
Our Solly Baby
I can’t tell if this is my own damn fault or if this is just the easiest way to get full naps when they’re this little, but–just like Ali did– Cora sleeps snuggled in the Solly wrap for 95% of her daytime sleep. My shoulders and posture may not agree, but I think it’s generally working for us. I get two free hands to do things like write this blog post, and Cora gets deep, long naps. Most days, I try to put her down in the bassinet for at least one snooze, but if I try for a good while and am not successful, I usually capitulate and stick her in the wrap, where she dozes off almost instantly. One day soon, she’ll nap elsewhere, but in the meantime, I don’t mind her soft snores, warm milky breath, and easy access for head sniffs and smooches.
Hunting for Patterns and Similarities
I constantly find myself hunting for patterns and similarities between Ali at this age and Cora now. It brings me comfort to remember that Ali slept on top of me for the first week of her life too, then learned to sleep in the bassinet. (Check.) That Ali hated the car at first too, but eventually grew to tolerate, then love it. (Work in progress.) That Ali napped exclusively in the Solly wrap for the first three months of her life too, and one day just became fine with sleeping elsewhere. (TBD.) That Ali screamed like a banshee around dinner time too, and one day outgrew it. (Seems likely.)
These similarities are my reminders that “this too shall pass” and that– just as we did with Ali– we simply need to edge toward the behavior we want. Gently. Deliberately. Patiently.
Little by little, two steps forward, one step or two steps or sometimes three steps back, we’ll get there.
I love the way Cora rests her chin on her forearm when she sleeps in the wrap, propping up her chubby little newborn cheeks and making them oh-so-kissable.
I love the way she squawks when she is getting ready to wake– a sharp inhale of air that makes her sound a little like a hawk who just spotted dinner.
I love her hair, that she has it at all, but especially the way it makes her look like a no-frills, shoulder pad-wearing ’90s business woman when she’s fresh out of the bath.
I love how it feels to have her sleeping in my arms after a full feed. Heavy, satisfied, awkwardly strewn across my bony forearm. Sweaty, snoring, not a care in the world.
I love that her newborn outfits were once comically large, and they are now comically small. As my dad says, “the kid hasn’t missed any meals.”
I love that I’ve learned to be more patient and more present, because it makes even the exhausting, Sisyphean elements of newborn care feel like acts of complete and utter unconditional love.
But most of all, I love our Cora. “I love who you are,” I whisper to her when the house is still and she’s calmed for the night. “I love who you are becoming.”