Smiling Eyes

She is eight months old today.

Eight months.

It has been eight months since I first saw her little face in the dimmed lights of my hospital room and heard the soft whimpers of her sleeping. It has been eight months since I felt her hiccups in my arms and remembered with astonishing clarity how that felt coming from within me. It has been eight months since her daddy and I became a family of three, learning how much we can love someone who does nothing to earn it and cherishing every moment as it passes in the wind.

I can remember tightly holding a tiny swaddled bundle, fearing I might crush her in her delicate newness. I can remember the fragility of her tiny fingers as they grasped my comparatively enormous finger. I remember the silky smooth thinness of her skin as it peeled and broke out, attempting to acclimate itself to the harsh new world in which it found itself. I can remember the terror as I looked into her bright eyes, knowing that she was depending on me for everything and wondering if I would ever be up to the challenge. I remember struggling to feed her, crying as I realized that this – the most basic of my responsibilities to her – was the hardest thing I had ever done. I remember leaping from the warmth and comfort of my bed into the cold January air at the slightest hint that she needed me. I remember seeing her bright, dark gray eyes peering up at me from her bassinet; despite the hour and my extreme exhaustion, I remember thinking how beautiful she was and how happy I was that she was there.

She has grown so. She is no longer a tiny baby, but looks more like a child every day; rather than worry that she might break as I hold her, I worry that she is uncomfortable as she tries to fit her long arms and legs on my now increasingly inadequate lap. Her fingers, still small in relation to mine, no longer reflexively clutch my own fingers; rather, they reach and grab and hold out of curiosity and intrigue. Her skin is still silky smooth, sweetly perfumed now not by the natural newborn fragrance, but by Johnson’s recreation of the same. Those things have changed, but much is still the same.

I am still stricken with terror when I look into her eyes and allow myself to fell the weight of the responsibility upon me…but now I can cling to all that I have already learned and keep in mind that I will be equipped for each challenge as it arises. I still struggle to feed her, though now it isn’t the fundamentals of breastfeeding that haunt me, but the fresh challenges of spoon-feeding an eager eater a mashed puree of carrots and chicken. I still leap when she needs me, and am learning the difference between her needs and wants as she places increasing demands on me and my time. I still smile when I see her bright eyes watching me, and brim with joy when her smiling brown eyes catch mine. I still think she is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m happier than ever that she is here.