This One Girl...

This little girl steals hearts...

Well, it's been a little over two months, and our little girl is thriving. Sure, her pediatrician thinks she could stand to gain a few ounces. But she is thriving, regardless.

In the past month, she's learned a few things:

1. Smiling. She is a smiley, happy, gurgly little baby. And we absolutely love that.

2. Pooping. By means that escape us, she is completely capable of getting poop up her back, down her leg, and all over us.

3. Rolling over. She can roll over. Child prodigy, right here. We make 'em right.

4. Diva-ness. Penelope Mae knows when she wants to be fed, when she wants to be rocked to sleep, when she needs to have her diapers changed, etc. And she makes sure the world knows when these events are to occur.

The best part about Penelope, for me, has been seeing all the small cues that have developed that hint at her personality, and the type of person she will be when she is older. It's an amazing process.

Also amazing is seeing my wife's maternal instincts. Elizabeth is an amazing, loving, caring, and nurturing mother. She puts me to shame with her awesomeness.

Day Seven...

At least, we think it's day seven. When you tend to only get five hours of sleep a day in random spurts, time flies fast.

For those of you who don't know, we experienced the arrival of a stowaway!

Penelope Mae Mosey was born on January 4th, 2013 at 5:28 PM

Penelope Mae Mosey on day one!

DNA test results are inconclusive, but this photo is proof of my fatherhood.

For those of you who have children, you will know what I mean when I say that the last seven days have been a whirlwind. I find it difficult to believe that in only seven days we have timidly transitioned from being an expectant married couple to being a family of three. It's a heavy draught for me to swallow, and I've even been here for all of it. I can only imagine the reactions of my acquaintances as the news has been passed round. Outright shock and denial. Me, a father?

Shocking as it may seem, it is fact. And each morning and night I marvel at the beauty and miracle that is my baby daughter. She is currently sitting on my chest as I lounge on our sofa writing this blog. I'd like to imagine she is flattered that I am writing about her, and is voicing her opinions in each coo and moan.

This blog post has been Penelope Mae-approved.

In these seven days, we've had a lot of drama in The Flat (our affectionate, Brit-inspired name for our apartment). Without going into too much detail about breasts and feeding off of them (for all you little boys and girls out there that might cry "ICKY!!"), there has been a bit of trouble in paradise. Whether because of some oversight or mistake on our part or our daughter's, Penelope has not been gaining the weight her pediatrician hopes that she would. She was and is a petite little thing, but the desired flab just won't stick. We've had two appointments in three days, with another scheduled "weigh-in" tomorrow morning. If we don't have our desired results, we may have to opt for some more intensive feeding options.

As far as we can tell, the problem does seem to lie with Penelope. When it comes time for a scheduled feeding, she becomes violently agitated. She kicks and screams, and even when she latches, she lets go. Then, in a fit of frustration, she cries that she lost her latch. It's a vicious cycle, and while it does showcase her remarkable lack of self-awareness (a hallmark of seven-day olds, I imagine) it also reveals her independence and stubbornness, both qualities I tend to value. However, I tend to value these quite less when they prevent me from sleeping at 3 in the morning.

Other than said drama, Penelope is doing extremely well. Beth and I like to look for different ways that we believe that she is better than all the other children her age, and some that are older. We can already tell that she's a smart girl, much like her mother. And she has my fingers and toes. We love our little hobbit/Chipotle burrito/munchkin.

Penelope Mae on day seven!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Of Bumps and Jumps and Things They Don't Tell You

Holy Santa Claus shirt, Batman!!!

Beth has popped.

See? Told ya. Her baby bump is no longer a meager paunch, it is a full-blown bump. We're both grateful because before it was hard for outsiders to tell if she was actually pregnant or just gaining weight. Now there's no argument. At least, no argument among those more observant than a dead sea cucumber.

In the midst of this bump, there've been some jumps. And some kicks. Oh, have there been kicks. Sometimes they come about as a response to my voice, which is kinda cool. I speak, and my daughter roundhouse kicks my wife's uterus. Goal achieved. Even without my help, Penelope is seeking to establish a reputation as an amazing pre-natal soccer star. And Beth probably has internal hemorrhaging from said kicks. The "guilt trip your child" list grows ever longer in Beth's favor. And these things are to be expected.

What I didn't expect were all of MY changes. And I don't just mean gaining ten pounds. Let me see if I can illustrate...

I've never been one to cry or get emotional. I mean, like anyone, there are times when I would be touched, especially by emotive music or spiritual things. But today I realized that I've been getting choked up quite a bit over the past few weeks. Over silly, trivial things.

I choked up thinking about taking my daughter to Disneyland. I choked thinking about her first Hallowe'en, or her first Christmas when she knows about and believes in Santa Claus. I choked up hearing the Star Wars theme and a Jason Mraz song I associate with Penelope now ("I Won't Give Up"). And I got choked up when I saw a little girl and her daddy at the Fiesta Olive Garden. I even wanted to use the word "cute" to describe her, all wrapped up in pink and frill. She was so tiny and cute. I felt like a estrogen-laden, tree-hugging sap. And that's putting it fairly mildly.

As it turns out, what they don't tell you about pregnancy could fill a few dozen books. One of these hidden facts is that when you are a guy living with a pregnant woman, you start to... change... Hormones and chemicals re-align. Your body starts pumping stuff it really shouldn't, estrogen being a case in point. These chemicals and hormones serve to forcefully calm down the macho manly man within said guy, and make him into a blubbering mess. It's possibly a process to help the man acclimate to being nurturing to an infant, rather than trying to play four-square with it.

Not, in fact, a sport involving newborns.

So now the slightest thing can choke me up. The Disney castle sequence before films. The Indiana Jones theme. Seeing a toddler babbling and hopping through a restaurant. Things that make me realize that I'm becoming a father, and that not only do I get to raise a child now...

I get to be a kid myself again.

... except, with more crying involved.