As I type, at 2:47 a.m., I have a laptop on my left knee and a sleeping, swaddled baby on my right thigh, having just fed her for the 100th time today. Vivian is currently favoring the "cluster feeds," where she sucks for 10 minutes, spits the boob out, refuses more boob, but then, an hour later, screams bloody murder for more. Rinse and repeat as necessary.
So that's pretty much been our Saturday, along with a family outing to Costco (on a Saturday afternoon with a 7-week-old. Shoot me in the head if I ever try to do that again). The incessant feedings have been a bit irritating -- every time I start to enjoy some me time (say, eating a sandwich, getting through a row of knitting, going to the bathroom), she'd start sqwaking, and only a boob could calm her down. But now as I sit here, baby in lap, I can't imagine anywhere else I'd like to be. She's snug in her Sleep Sack (love, love, love this thing), with one arm pulled out of the swaddle, and I'm just amazed that she's here. After everything, she's here and she's mine. She came out of me. This mom thing is just the coolest thing ever.