4 weeks

In a few short hours, Oliver will officially be four weeks old.

Four whole weeks.

Four weeks of sweetness, growing, snuggling, being. He and his daddy exchange smiles and I wonder just who is wrapped up in this chunky little body of delightful smoosh.

Four weeks of nighttime cuddles, early morning yawns, daytime contentedness, evening joy.

Today was one of those days. The kind I've come to refer to as "postpartum days." You know... the ones when everyone and everything seems to be all kinds of messed up, most of all me. In the midst of the frustration and inadequacies and, yes, tears I think to myself that half of all the wrongness is probably just waves of hormones, but even that only seems to heap more guilt on my soul.

But also in the midst of it all, Oliver drifts off to sleep where I hurriedly place him during some minor crisis and this time when the tears well up they are because I feel so blessed to know him, so blessed to have carried him, so blessed by his peacefulness.

We will make the necessary adjustments, and in the meantime I linger just a little longer than needed after feeding my baby, glad to smell his newness, glad to trace his cheeks with my finger, glad to look in his eyes, glad to soak in his smiles, glad to laugh at his chubbiness.

Four weeks is a flash in the pan, a breath in time. Nothing, really.

But four weeks already? I wonder how time can fly so quickly when I would, just for now, hold on so tightly if I only I could.