I keep hoping I’ll have time to write something more than stream-of-consciousness blather, but that’s not looking likely, so here’s the best I’ve got.
Iris is lovely. She has a round face, fine little features. Eyes that I think will turn brown like her daddy’s, and hair that hopeful relatives and unbiased strangers alike have called “red.” I love that her coloring, at least, seems so different from Ingrid’s light, light hair and blue eyes. Baby pictures of Ingrid look strikingly like her (to the point where they’re hard to tell apart), but to me, in person, Iris looks utterly different from Ingrid then or now, and really not like anyone else I can name either.
So far she is rarely fussy, and even when hungry, just lets us know with a squawk or two. She doesn’t seem at all to be the zero-to-wailing-in-one-second type. For which I am so grateful. Also grateful that she is sometimes totally happy to suck on her hand. And that so far she hasn’t spit up more than a half teaspoon at a time.
And plus, it is such a privilege to have a newborn. I’d forgotten. It’s so amazing to be able (when there’s time) to sit and hold her and know we’re together for the long haul and not have to hand her back to anyone.
Ingrid is having a rough time. She’s got the world’s shortest fuse right now and the tiniest spill or frustrating incident sends her into complete teary whininess. It is one part exhausting, two parts heartbreaking. She has a new really sad crying face that I haven’t seen before, and it kills me. KILLS ME. I saw it first the first afternoon we were home with Iris. Iris started fussing a little, and Ingrid came undone to see and hear it, hiding her face behind her hands and cowering toward A, away from me and the baby. Worried and sad and miserable looking.
At the same time, she is still very sweet with Iris. Gentle. Kisses her. Wants to hold her, and grins hugely when she’s got her on her lap. And she doesn’t exactly seem jealous. She’s objected to my nursing Iris a few times, but more often asks me to pick the baby up than to put her down.
She may, more than anything, be reacting to the unprecedented 48 hours she spent away from A and me while we were at the hospital. We talked a lot beforehand about what would happen, and she was with her beloved grandmas and had a great time, but she is sort of acting like she’s afraid we’ll leave again. And, on top of that, everything is suddenly different in a confusing, unclear way. Mama can’t lift her into the crib (I’d forgotten to get us read for that). Daddy’s home all the time. Everyone’s attention is divided in a new way. She must have a lot of scary theories as to what will happen next, and I wish I knew enough about what those are to be able to reassure her.
Really, I’m right there with her. Undone by sound of crying baby? Check. Not sure what’s going to happen next? Check. Crazy about the baby, but kinda miss the way things used to be? Check and check. I just wish there were three of me: One to sit and snuggle all day with gorgeous, soft Iris. One to chase my giant, brilliant, grown up Ingrid around the park. And one to curl up in bed and look out at the leaves and cry just a little and then drift off into uninterrupted sleep.