Myra's 4 months old

Before sleeping, Myra wants to bury her head in my neck.  I gently guide her head to look out and she is still. Her breath soft and warm against my skin.  Her little fists relaxed and her rolls sinking into mine. We'll sway slowly throughout the house, remembering that our bodies used to belong together and, in a lot of ways, still do.  Her hair is fuzzy and tickles my cheek, but her eyes never close.  

Myra's room is now a closet. It’s not a metaphor. The mini crib technically fit. We compromised on being able to fully open the door. Before I can lay her down I have to balance on one foot to close the door behind me. Sometimes her toes catch on the empty wooden hangers. Wind chimes in the air. It steals my breath, but she doesn’t stir.

Its so nice to open our creaky bedroom door without a second thought, to turn on a light, to speak above a whisper. I can feel my rhythm beat at a pace of peace.  She's napping so well.  She's going to bed first try.  I have hours, so many hours, of my day and night back.  Her infancy is a fog passing to skies that lend me breath. The sent is sweet. She's so sweet.  This Myra baby. 

She discovered her hands, and that scratching fabric is joyful.  She loves crinkly chip bags and hates accidentally gumming her own fingers. She loves to smile, to swing and to eat her swaddle blankets.  She cries in the second it takes to switch boobs and kicks while she eats. She won't sleep in cars, but silently rides and observes.  

I feel guarded as the weight of another human knocks me off balance.  I still feel grief that weaves through a maze of mental health. Being human is a lot to navigate, and some days the best I can do is to try to love my insides and the pick up the cards as they fall. But even as the weight presses it can't touch my love for Myra.  She is simply, irrevocably  cherished.  Chubby, Chunky, Sweetie, Sunshine. I love this little human.  On purpose, I love her. On accident I love her.  Guarded and embracing, I love this Myra girl.