She’s three weeks old today.
It’s strange how much and how little that feels like, all at once. Time right now is fluid. The hours between midnight and morning blur into a single stretch of half-sleep and whispered promises that “we’ve got you.” Sunlight is just something that leaks through the blinds while we rock her, feed her, change her, start again.
I keep telling myself I’m going to start writing again. Really writing. The kind with focus and rhythm and a clear head. But then the next feed is due, or the nappy count hits a reset, or my brain just…fog rolls in and the best I can do is drink water and remember what day it is.
Still, I’m here. And so is she. And that matters more than the words I haven’t written.
She’s healthy. Getting stronger every day. That word—stronger—means more to me now than it ever did before. I see it in her eyes, in the way she lifts her head for a second longer than yesterday. I hear it in the way she makes noise when she wants to. She’s not loud yet, but she’s clear.
We had a home visit from the midwife today. It went well. There’s something calming about having someone experienced walk through your space and say, “You’re doing okay.” Maybe that’s all anyone really needs someone to say, “You’re okay. Keep going.”
I’ve been trying to remember that.
This isn’t the season for perfection. It’s the season for presence. For holding her at 3am while she dreams, or fusses, or just looks around like the world is brand new. It is new for her, and honestly, for me too.
I’ll write more when I can. I’ll sleep when I can. But for now, I’m here. With her. And that’s enough.