Today you are six weeks old. If your dad was here he'd correct me and say "Well, at 7.11 pm she will be."
The crazy thing is that right now, those eight hours do make a difference. Every day you've seemed more alert, more watchful. Now when you feed you stare up at me with large, calm eyes. In the evening you get a little frenzied and (my interpretation) try hijacking our dinner conversation with emphatic growls and postures, worrying my breast the same way a dog beats a loved toy into compliance.
You weigh about eight and a half pounds and fit into 0000 clothing now - the little 00000 bonds suits that hung off you in the hospital are now relegated to a box so that one day you can dress your baby dolls in them and Michael and I can be amazed all over again by how small and perfect you were.
You have already perfected a couple of expressions; my favourite is the slightly sneaky, heh-heh-heh sideways glance just before you clamp down. The switched-off pursed mouth is another favourite, even if it predicts a visit to the change table. You still don't burp very well and struggle with wind pains - sometimes they wake you up and we pat your back or try to rub your tiny tummy while you windmill in anguish. I slipped two amber bracelets onto your little ankles last week and I hope they're helping. I don't want to take them off to see! I imagine that when you get around to it you will smile generously and often. You love to sleep on your tummy propped against us, or wrapped and carried. Thank you for the hours of rest this has granted me.
We seem to be doing ok as a family so far - your dad is great at cooking so I don't have to and bringing me a cup of tea in the morning so you and I can lie in a little. Feeling the weight of your sleeping body or watching you try to make sense of the world is astounding.