Thursday, October 21, 2010

Sweet Amelia

It's October and Amelia is almost three months old. I'm already having a hard time remembering what life was like without her. I've spent many years loving other people's children. I've loved my friends and family's children and I've loved my students. But nothing--nothing--could have prepared me for what I feel when I look at my daughter. Now that I'm not sleep deprived, I want to start writing more about her. Before I had her, I said, "My blog is not going to become 'mommy central.'" Yeah... about that...

Tonight when I gave Amelia a bath, John said he couldn't believe how much of the tub she fills up now. It's like that with everything: her bassinet, her swing, even that damned car seat that has become the bane of our existence (but that's another story). She even wore a 3-6 month outfit yesterday. I was just so sure it would be too big, but I wanted to try it on her since it has a pumpkin on it. As I snapped those little buttons and realized that there was almost no spare material, I had tears in my eyes. My baby girl looked at me and grinned her big toothless grin as if to say, "It's okay, Momma. I'm still pretty little."

She's growing every day it seems. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and look at her lying there beside me, and I swear she looks different than she did the night before. It's as if some fairy sprinkled magical dust over her while we were sleeping. She's picking up new things so quickly. One morning I put her on her playmat and spent a good half hour rattling the toys and trying by best to get her to grasp the little rings. By lunch, I was standing in kitchen and heard a commotion from the living room. There she was with both hands clutching rings, shaking the hell out of the entire baby gym while kicking both legs in the air. Now I have to pry her little fingers off of the rings sometimes or we carry the entire playmat with us to the nursery.

Every day I'm amazed at how much more my heart swells. I tell her if I love her any more, I may just explode. And the closer I get to my sweet Peanut, the more I find that every aspect of my life has changed. Even watching a movie is a totally different experience. I sat down today to watch My Sister's Keeper. I wasn't incredibly interested in watching it, but since I'd read the book I thought I'd give it a shot. Note to self: NO MORE MOVIES ABOUT SICK KIDS. While I've always been one to cry when I watch something sad (especially when children are involved), being a mother has unleashed an entirely new wave of emotions. I cried and I sobbed and I heaved and I cried some more. And when it was over, I didn't put Amelia down for over an hour. I cried over her and talked to her and promised her that I'd do everything I could to make her happy and to keep her safe. I told her that she would never be alone as long as I'm on this earth. I told her she's beautiful and how complete she's made me.

And it started with a movie. A movie with Cameron Diaz, for Pete's sake!

I am crazy about my little girl. At one point in my life, I said IF I ever had kids, I hoped it was a boy. I was terrified at the thought of having a little me running around. And while I would have been just as happy and blessed if God had given me a little man, I am so thankful that I get the chance to raise a daughter. I swear sometimes I cannot stop staring at her. I'm glad you can't creep out a baby. I can't stop, though. I sit and stare at her like I'm afraid I'll forget what she looks like. And I know she's my child and I'm biased, but she is gorgeous. I wonder sometimes how something so beautiful came from me. She's her daddy made over which makes me happy. I love looking into her face and seeing him looking back at me. But even though she looks nothing like me, sometimes I feel I'm looking in a mirror. Does that make sense?
I could write more, but it's terribly late and there's a chance Little One will get up with the proverbial chickens. It's okay, though. I've always hated mornings, but I'm finding myself excited now since I start every day with her.

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