Week Two: The Finley Files

My darling Finley,

Two weeks... Two weeks! It seems like so much longer... It truly feels like you've been with me forever. Even now when I look back and think of my pregnancy, I can't picture it the same way, because the whole time I saw you as an anonymous baby. Now I now it was you, all along. Of course it was you.

We're getting a hold of our patterns, you and I. You're a nursing champ. You balance using a pacifier, a nipple shield, and a regular nipple, and you don't get confused. Breastfeeding is easier, except for my one cracked nipple. (How many more times can I say nipple these days?) And speaking of cracked, I've gotten more sleep and life is infinitely more enjoyable. That was a lesson I needed to learn in personal boundaries and taking care of moi, because I would love nothing more than to dedicate every waking breath to you and only you... But in order to be a good mommy, I've got to have my beauty rest.


Here's a picture of you and Daddy, the day you came home from the hospital. He loves you so much. It's fun to watch his eyes light up when he finally gets you in his arms. He talks to you, tells you how pretty you are. He's silly, Finley. He drives Mommy crazy most days, but he is in love with you.

It's amazing how much you've changed. Your eyes get bigger every day, you stay awake longer, you smile at the best times, you love to look at Christmas lights, and you really fill your diapers now. You're beautiful, too, and not just by my biased standards. Your visitors all comment on how aware you are, how gorgeous. You're a work of art. You should be hung in a gallery with a coat check and juice bar.

(Finley as burrito, 2009, performance piece in bassinet)

Speaking of bar, your new favorite thing to do is hang out at the bar without drinking. Translation? Cry to nurse, get on the boob, then fall asleep. Then cry when I take you off. Grandma pointed out that when you do that, you're not really looking to get drunk. You just want to hang out with the bartender (me). I'm flattered. Thanks, sugar britches. I wanna party with you, too.

Talk about loved! You are passed around from arm to arm. Grandma gets home from work and before even saying hi to me has her hands outstretched saying GIMME. When it's time for you to eat, whoever has you reluctantly gives you to me and says, "You have forty minutes. Bring her back happy." GiGi and PaPa Turner fight over you like a wishbone. "There's not enough Finley to go around," they complain. I agree. I could take ten more of you.

Here's you and Aunt Hannah. She's your photographer and stylist. I can't wait to get those skinny jeans and harness boots that she bought on your little body. Another six weeks, I think.


Something kind of special: you are a fifth generation baby. That means you are the living bookend to five generations that are still on this earth. Here is a picture of you with your great-grandma, Grandma Kay Eagar. She's your Grandpa's mom. Grandpa is my dad. Her stepmom, Grandma Anne, is still alive in New Jersey. So it's five generations through marriage, but still miraculous. And you're the end link, with all the potential in the world.

I think motherhood is really about confidence, and I'm feeling more confident this week.

This week, you have:

Peed on Hannah's bed, my bed, and the Turners' red leather couch

Fell in love with your swing

Had your first tub bath with Momma, which you absolutely loved (I think the warm water gave you womb flashbacks)

Locked eyes with your own reflection in the mirror (cutest damn thing)

Finally burped for Mommy

Gotten your first Christmas ornament and helped hang it on the tree

Found your first pediatrician (appointment's tomorrow!)

Worn lots of baby lip gloss (from the makers of Butt Paste)

Wrapped yourself more and more around my heart

Fin... Fin... Fin... I just love you. I was talking to a friend who does not have children, telling him about our days together, and he was amazed. "I can't believe how much babies require. I don't think I could ever have that much to give," he said. "You know?" I said. "I can't believe how selfish we can be. I never thought my self would grow this big. I give everything I have and five minutes later, I'm shocked at how much more of me there is to give."

The world is yours, Fin. This time is special. While I look ahead excitedly at your milestones--holding up your head, drinking from a bottle, crawling, walking, Harvard--I shudder at the thought of these days being gone. That's the thing about this--because you're on such a tight leash as a mother, because you're living your days in two hour intervals, you're almost forced to live in the moment and appreciate the little things.

My heart is filled with joy, Finley Mae...

Love always,

Mommy

P.S. Thank you for not being sensitive to spicy foods. Or chocolate. It makes my days much easier knowing I can relax with hot chocolate and spicy Doritos without hurting you.