It dawned on me yesterday that my daughter is perfect.
Not in the normal wonderouscreationofGod sort of way that every mother is quite conscious of and which forces us to spend several minutes, possibly hours, doing absolutely nothing but stare at our lovely lovely offspring. But in the eccentric, sometimes maddening sort of way.
Yes, she is utterly and hopelessly exquisite. Those hematite eyes that reflect flowers. or passing traffic. or the couch. And oh the tiny heart-shaped lips that suck imaginary breasts in her dreams. And have we mentioned that our wonder-child now blows glistening crystalline bubbles through big sprawling grins directed mostly at her father? And please please don't mention the cheeks that I realized recently I cannot help but kiss EVERY SINGLE TIME I pick her up. It's undoubtedly a stronger urge than her rooting reflex.
There are those, but my daughter's other perfections are like...when my mother comes home from a yard sale with simply THE MOST PERFECT empty cigar box or yard decoration or not-another-candle-holder that the rest of us are simply too blind to see.
For instance, Samaya sleeps a gloriously long stretch of 4-5 hours at night followed by increments of 1 hour until around 8 AM when Mommy simply cannot risk falling asleep one more time only to be tortured awake 30 minutes later. At which point said Mommy gets up and eats her cereal and said baby often sleeps another 3 hours. Now I don't have any idea what logic exists in her pattern, but she whole-heartedly believes it is a perfect one especially since she spends several joyous minutes each morning recounting her dreams to me.
She also thinks it is absolutely perfect to keep a certain portion of my body in her mouth after she has fallen asleep. She lets me know that this is a perfect situation by announcing how absolutely unperfect it is if I remove that specific portion from her mouth.
And I'm sure none of you noticed how her breath smells like peach cobbler or how when she sleeps on her side she clasps her hands together as if in prayer. We both see eye to eye on these particulars.
I especially think she's perfect when she lets out a sharp 'HEY' after she's clearly been up for a while and still nobody is bothering to pick her up. And when she's working up to a really big cry and then remembers a story she wants to tell you and completely forgets that she was moments ago STARVING. FAMISHED. bordering on MALNOURSHISHED for God's sake. And then glimpses her mother's chest before the story is even finished and realizes there is absolutely no time for the punch line. No time at all.
She is bigger than all babies her age. Perfect.
I can count on one hand the amount of times I changed her diaper and there was no poop. Perfect.
She shares my love of Jason Mraz. Definitely perfect.
When she's nursing and Daddy tries to snuggle with us, she kicks him in the stomach. Most definitely perfect.
I have spent way too many minutes of these last seven weeks worried that she's going to get addicted to that pacifier, that none of us will ever get a full night's sleep again because I nurse her to sleep, that maybe she eats too much, and has too little tummy time, and doesn't have enough of a routine in her life.
Then yesterday happened when Samaya and I were lying on the bed nursing. Listening to her adorable nursing noises with my body curled around hers and the end of the day's sun on our toes, I realized this was perfect. She. I. Everything was exactly how it should be.