I'm in a position I most often find myself in these days: sitting stiffly on the couch, laptop balanced on my thighs, 11-pound baby balanced on my chest. She's asleep, sprawled out, head steadily boring a hole into my breastbone, totally relaxed and yet her little fist maintains a grip on the sleeve of my ratty brown bath robe. Her hair, which for unknown reasons maintains itself in a most splendid fauxhawk, softly tickles my chin; but at 10 weeks, I notice it's not quite the gosling down she had as a newborn.
Oh god, my chest hurts. My baby girl may only be in the 25th percentile when it comes to weight and height, but her head's a different story. It's big and very heavy, and I recently bought a neoprene wrist-support band because all that lifting and holding of my still-floppy headed dumpling has caused a constant ache to develop.
The posts in this blog might start and end abruptly because I have a two-month-old baby who often and abruptly needs something. And it's always at a critical moment, like when the microwave beeps to tell you that your lunch is ready, and even though breastfeeding makes you ravenous and the nuked rice is going to be plasticky by the time you get to it, you drop everything and go to the baby. Same thing with blog posts: If I wait to finish and publish a post later, I'll end up never blogging.
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