6 Weeks

Today marks Francie's 6-week birthday. She is officially the cutest baby in the world. She had her first bath without tears (neither hers nor mine). She is in cloth diapers more than 50% of the time (we still need to buy more). When she wears her BumGenius diapers, her newborn-sized onesies are very nearly too small for her (but are still baggy in the arms and thighs). She is feeding about twice in the middle of the night, and usually keeps me up for nearly an hour each time. We moved the basinet next to our bed, but I still like to have her sleep between us, with my arm cuddled around her. She continues to be most alert and engaged during the morning hours, and is fussiest in the evenings. But really she is more awake and more alert with each day; she likes to look around, especially at lights or out the window. Babies supposedly start smiling at around 6 weeks of age; Francie smiles, but it still seems reflexive rather than directed at either mama or daddy. She sometimes giggles in her sleep. 

I made it my mission to tell the world just how awful labor and delivery was, and I also want to make it my mission to tell the world just how awesome motherhood is. But every time I say how wonderful I feel, or how much fun I'm having, or what a good sleeper the Bean is, I want to knock on wood or something. I feel like I'm just waiting for my luck to run out. Like I got it good when conceiving, during pregnancy, and for motherhood (so far), and that means I've got to have it rough any day now. I hate the fact that I'm expecting the other shoe to drop. Luckily, it doesn't detract from my day-to-day life with her, but is something that occasionally tugs in the back of my mind. Alex tells me that's not the way the world works. That there isn't any formula to determine when and what and how much good or bad a person gets in their life. That it just is what it is, and to just be grateful when we're fortunate. Or, "it's not time to worry," as my mother would say.