Our lives have become a sort of twilight haze. One day runs into the next. I figure I'll know when it's Sunday because that's when the fat newspaper arrives.
The numbers on the clock tell me how long Gabby's been nursing, but not whether it's day or night.
Gabby eats, poops, sleeps, spits up rather spectacularly, and cries. Sometimes she cries for what seems like hours, impervious to our manic and often comical attempts to comfort her. Sometimes I cry, too, out of frustration, exhaustion, joy, or a combination of all three. It's a good thing I don't have anywhere in particular to go, because the few clothes that fit me (mostly pajamas) have milk, spitup, and lanolin stains all over them, despite my mother's heroic attempts to keep up with the mountain of laundry.
"Normal" life seems like a distant memory. What did I used to do with my time? Work? Sleep? No idea. It all seems irrelevant now.
Meanwhile, our little one is changing and growing every day. She's already an ounce heavier and an inch taller than when she was born. She's grown an extra chin and chubby cheeks. She inexplicably smells like sugar cookies. When she's asleep, she looks like a cherub. When she's awake, she grunts and makes all sorts of faces. Sometimes she looks like an elf. Sometimes she looks like Robert DeNiro.
She's a pretty funny kid for someone who can't talk.
She's a ton of work. She's a miracle. She's the best thing that's ever happened to either of us.