11 pounds 7 ounces.
22 3/4 inches tall.
The kid is hovering at the sixtieth percentile, and I am just in awe. It took her sister twice as long to hit these dimensions, thanks to my abortive attempts at exclusive breastfeeding. Genevieve, on the other hand, happily chugs formula *and* breastmilk, which, for the record, I appear to be producing at a rate of about 20ml per side per hour. (Is that good? I’m going to go ahead and say yes, that’s good.) And by all accounts (including the color, texture and aroma of her stools, the details of which I’ll spare you) Eve is getting all the sustenance she needs. Of course I’d rather breastfeed exclusively, but when the data continues to support the use of nutritional supplements, I can’t really argue with success. It’s amazing how well a baby grows when you feed her enough.
She feels heavy when you carry her around. It’s a good thing she doesn’t require a lot of dancing-about, because she’d quickly wear me out. Fortunately, despite an inclination to fuss when handed to someone else, Genevieve is quite happy to chill calmly on the boppy in my lap, sometimes nursing, sometimes napping, sometimes halfway in between.
It is blissful. These are the elements of maternity leave that are priceless beyond measure: the warm weight of a tiny person in your lap, the wonderful fuzz of her hair, the unequaled sound of her voice cooing at you, the impossibly sweet scent behind her ears no matter how long it’s been since her bath. (I don’t recall Natalie having a scent, but I swear to God, Genevieve smells like vanilla, marshmallows, sugar cookies.) I’ve got a month to go before I’m back at the office, and this is going to be the hardest thing to give up, these hours on end of just being with this baby, gazing into her mood-ring eyes, figuring out how to make her smile. And while I guess I’m happy to delegate the task of Teaching This Kid To Nap Anywhere Other Than Mommy’s Arms to a willing third party, I’m in no way looking forward to the end of this perfect little episode. It is passing magnificent to be the mother of an infant. Soon enough she’ll be teething and crawling and spitting out rice cereal, and her daddy will be happy since that’s the beginning of *his* favorite part of parenthood, but this right now is mine and I will miss it something fierce.
I never would have believed it if you’d told Younger Me how much I’d love babies. Motherhood in general is definitely (and somewhat surprisingly, to me) worth the price of admission, but babies in particular are the most gobsmacking amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. Not a day passes when I don’t snuggle Genevieve and murmur “You’re my baby. Oh, this baby. This baby!” Unlike her father, I am not looking forward to Genevieve graduating from infancy to something more demanding and complex. Nor am I particularly psyched to return to the office when Eve is a scant three months old. This is the last baby we’re planning to have, my last measured dose of this unique bliss. And everything else — blogging, singing, cooking, emailing, housekeeping — can wait for now, because this time is a gift, and I don’t want to miss a moment of it.