Soon I will write about the night Beatrice came to join us.
But recalling pulls me away from this moment, and living this moment is begging for all my attention these days. Each fleeting moment of baby fists curled like rosebuds, of cheeks-so-soft and lips-so-small, of new baby smell growing fainter and fainter, of tiny body sleeping on my chest. My sweet girl.
This morning we woke to gray. Dark eyes fluttered open next to me, the little bundle nestled in the crook of my arm suddenly squirming and awake. 6:30am, we slip from our bed, leave the daddy sleeping, and make our way to the kitchen. Jameson joins us, and for two hours, the three of us snuggle in the armchair together — Beatrice nursing, then awake and just soaking in the world, now drifting off into dreamland; Jameson watching Little House on the Prairie, cooing to his adored baby sister (“Beatwice Ewaine”, in sing-song, will melt my heart all day long), and then slipping down to build a train track; me just studying this new little lady on my lap who is suddenly ready to be awake for two hours, and holding close this growing freckle-faced boy who is going to be five in a few short weeks.
Now he’s busy playing trains, and she’s fast asleep. It’s almost 9am, ready to start the day. A day together. A day to live in and give thanks for.