RR is 6 weeks old. And gorgeous. Love. Her.
I almost stopped there. After all, there hasn’t been much else to say lately. And, while we tell everyone else how old she is, we just murmur about her beauty to ourselves like raving mad hatters. But I can tell you about the rest. I mean, the not beautiful parts, because I think we can agree that you only need to hear once…or twice…how lovely she is.
I’m not sure who else to tell about the 6:30-9:30pm chaos punctuated by screaming like a bloody lunatic and cooing, eye batting, sneak attacks. Come here, pretty mama, play with me…that’s right…NOW LISTEN TO MY WRATH! I’m afraid to consider daycare in just a few weeks. That’s right, 6:30-9:30pm is the only time I’m going to get with my little stinging nettle. Thank god her personality has changed twice more since noon. In two weeks she’s likely to be off on an entirely different rampage. Or right back here again.
We’re pretty patient people, but when I’m watching her turn purple with rage and grow two foot horns, I can see how even Gandhi could give up. As expected though, she makes up for it by falling asleep with a cupid’s bow mouth and the gentle rosy blush of sainthood. Then I forget that I’m bitter about the hearing loss and harpy claw marks.
She’s a good kid, actually. And she’s lovely, did I mention that? Cause if I didn’t, I should have. It’s all the sanity-protecting ammunition you have and you’re going to need it.