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After Eight Weeks …

They said not to judge the character of the baby until much later. “She will change—just you wait.” (Winner of the most obvious comment award.) Certainly my daughter will change like we all will change. But her character—an inkling of personality, the crux of what her soul is really all about—won’t. Her character was born along side of her and she is already who she’s going to be.

I can safely say, that reflecting on her first two months of life outside the womb, I still feel like she’s a little animal, slowly hatching herself out of its shell. Although she is outside my body, she still so heavily relies upon it. She is still so biological and instinctual with her needs (food, warmth, sleep, comfort, love). But every day we get glimpses of her evolving personality.

Who she has been so far …

She is a sleeper—like both of her parents. We both predicted this, eagerly anticipated it and I still knock on wood whenever I utter the words, “She is a good sleeper.”

The breastfeeding has gone surprisingly well. This is yet another one of those things I get nervous saying out loud. I’m knocking on Ikea wood right now. (Does that even count as real wood?) I also spit three times over my left shoulder just in case. I wouldn’t want to jinx it—whatever that means, but everyone seems to warn me of this “jinx” so I figure a wood knock and a little spittle isn’t so much to do to avoid such a horrific potential spell placed on my baby.

She is sweet—a very chill baby, which I only imagine might change dramatically when she realizes she has to compete with the loud mouths of this household.

She loves the bathtub or the shower, and when you wash her hair, she leans her head back as if in a spa.

She seems very concerned in her way. She often furrows her brows and looks either worried or disgruntled. Her wrinkled forehead is her greatest resemblance to me.

She loves her pacifier—but less and less each day. She likes to suck her hands too, but somehow gags herself when she tries to put shove her whole fist in her mouth. Perhaps this too is what she gets from me. Apparently I was born with my whole fist in my mouth. This should have definitely clued my parents in that I would be struggling with a lifetime of putting my foot in my mouth. (Sorry and I’m trying to write it down instead of saying it nowadays.)

Her eyes show a special soul, revealing a wisdom newborns shouldn’t even have in their eyes. She sometimes looks at me as if to say, “I understand exactly what you’re saying, I just can’t speak back.” I, in turn, feel like an idiot that doesn’t understand her language.

Her language, incidentally, consists of “words” that sound like “goo, coo, ah, ooh,” and sometimes there’s one that sounds like “hi.” The favorite is the “crrrr,” which doesn’t exactly have a proper spelling, but sounds a little like the sound of the suction at the dentist’s office, when the straw-like thingy sucks your saliva for a few seconds.

Of course, she ultimately has a heart of gold. How could I expect any less?

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