The morning started too early, exhaustion and adrenaline singing in my muscles, an unselfconscious full-throated rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star ringing out from Lucy's bedroom. It was impossible not to smile.
Oh what my body has accomplished this week, with its five simple senses at attention, in its power and its weakness. A life. We have welcomed a new life. Peanut is here with her wavering, warbling little cry, her skin so smooth, her eyes so bright, her toes so impossibly long. Julianne, we have called her, for Julian of Norwich (of course, you say smiling, of course). And Portia, for one of the most beautiful, strongest women I have ever known.
This day has called for a poppy bagel and decaf coffee, for a routine visit to the midwife, for a grilled cheese sandwich stuffed with apple and prosciutto, for leftover curried cauliflower soup, for apple cake with whipped cream, for a nap, for pizza with a kind and helpful friend, for a sip of Winter Ale. It has called for many hours with seven pounds of breathtaking beautiful and tiny on my lap, tugging at my breast. It has called for Advil on repeat for the ache of healing. It has smelled of milk and breastfed diapers, of essential oils in warm baths, of chill spring air. It has felt like eyes closing involuntarily as I sit, as I read a Dora book aloud or my Facebook page.
The evening ended a bit past the normal bedtime, with strains of "ABC" from the bedroom, one last loud lullaby. The rumble of washing machine and dishwasher. Our sides split with laughter.
I can't wait to tell you all the stories, but for now this is enough. There are tiny arms to be swaddled in flannel and crochet and tired bones to lift into bed until the next feed.
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