Owen has been in our lives for two weeks and already he was wiggled himself into all the cozy corners of our family as if he has been there all along, staring with his big, dark eyes, smiling his little smirk, snuggling his sweet bear snuggles.
After an initial weight loss of over a pound, he seems to be steadily gaining it all back. He no longer fits into any newborn clothes, and he never really fit into any of the newborn or extra small cloth diapers that Juni wore for the first month or so. He's a big guy, already able to hold his head up and check out his world.
Aside from the requisite feedings every few hours, Owen has been a great sleeper, which has been a mercy for me given the new chaos of our days. I cringe and remember countless dark hours of bouncing a sleepless, gassy Juniper around our little house in those first few weeks, and I thank my sweet baby boy for taking it easy on this mama.
Our days are infinitely busier. Our nights can get a little crazy. But we are, all of us, completely smitten.
What makes a birth story a "story"? Drama and surprise? Swift, unexpected developments? Long, laborious battles? Shrieking and wailing, like those actresses on the screen with the impossibly skinny hips? What if there was absolutely nothing remarkable at all about the birth other than a beautiful, healthy, sweet baby boy slipping into the world?