If you are a Winnie the Pooh savant, as I now am, you’ll understand the duality of my title; mysterious as it may seem to the average non-Pooh versed man or woman.
My brain/life is now comprised of songs of honey, being breakfast lunch and dinner, and snuggling the cutest little screamer ever evicted from a human woman’s womb. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I would however like more sleep.
Oh sleep, the elusive dream that once was. I get glimpses of my former love nightly, but we never meet for a full embrace. Our hands touch for the slightest moment before being forced apart once again, left to wonder when we should happen upon each other in the wild landscape that is the world. I wake each day aching to the bone, deeply desiring my old friend sleep. I feel the absence of my old friend in the core of my soul. In it’s place sits Everything is Honey, and milk stained t-shirts and rags.
In the dark room where I spend my evenings, I cradle the tiny milk monster that has captured my heart, attempting to attach her to my breast so she may feast upon her diet made of pure liquid gold. Eventually after multiple battles with two tiny talon covered fists we spend 10-20 minutes absorbing each other’s essence, her through the extraction of the gold I have carefully cultivated on her behalf, I through the mother’s love that overwhelms the soul when a mother holds her child. This all occurs while we are both being serenaded by the vacuum-like noise machine that lulls my sweet child back into the arms of my former friend sleep with whom sweet Hazel dances for 2-5 hours.
My child, Hazel Ivy, is an absolute delight. She has a double chin only a baby could wear proudly, big blue anime-like eyes, the most animated facial features ever sculpted by the genetic code, and the chubbiest little milk-tum in the world. I love her beyond measure.
She eats every 2-3 hours though sometimes she’d like to snack every 15 minutes. She poops 2 times a day and is always urinating and spitting up milk. She tires but thinks naps are the creation of Satan himself, unless of course she’s attached to either myself or her sweet daddy like a Koala bear. She smiles in a big, beautiful, gummy way that would melt the hardest man’s heart. She screams like a banshee in the car, when tired, in the stroller, whilst being worn, or if being forced to do anything that displeases her (which I enjoy, though my ears do not). She’s hilarious in a way beyond a baby’s years, and she is changing every day. She’s now 6 weeks old, wearing 0-3 month clothes and it makes me cry. She’s practically 30.