As of Friday afternoon, Miss Ivy Mathilda is one month old. She looks bigger and sturdier every day. More infant and less newborn. Her hair is still the mouse brown fuzz she was born with, and every now and then I catch a hint of a curl in it. Her eyes are either dark gray-blue or navy-brown.
Maybe I should have known it would happen when I named her after a climbing plant, but Ivy clings to be for dear life. She protests when I put her down, squawking with a ferocity I don't remember Westley having at this age, but maybe I've just forgotten. Ivy is intense. (And a little high maintenance.) Her favorite place is on my body.
She cries real tears now, and they collect in her tiny eyelashes. It's heartbreaking.
Over the past week, Ivy has moved away from having long stretches of sleep at night and started waking up every hour to feed (and party). Most nights the point comes when I think, I can't do this anymore. I start to believe that I will never sleep again and neither will Ivy. And then morning comes, and there's sunlight coming through the broken blinds, and Ivy is roaring for milk, and everything seems fine. Wonderful, even.
Happy first month, little love.