We fed you rice cereal for the first time last night. You were enthusiastic about chewing on the pink spoon. Most of the cereal ran down your chin. I would then re-spoon it into your mouth. Then it would dribble out again. In this way, feeding you a single spoonful took many minutes.
Your father took pictures and then a video. We laughed and ate more cornbread.
Today your grandmother is here, watching you while you sleep and I write. She broke her rib scrubbing the floor of the bathroom so she carries you on the left side of her body, away from the tenderness. She made me an egg salad sandwich for lunch.
Last night, you woke at 11:00. Daddy and I let you scream (horrid, blood-curdling shrieks) for half an hour before daddy went in to soothe you. First I heard him shushing. Then singing. Then your garbled cries as he put his finger in your mouth. Then dinosaur-like shrieks so loud that they startled you out of your screams. But then you began again. Then he shrieked again. You went back and forth like this for some time.
Finally he returned to bed saying, "she just keeps looking for you." And so I went in and fed you. And fed you again at 5am. Because it turns out that 30 minutes is the limit right now, 30 minutes is all I can take.
While I feed you I look at the icicles hanging in front of your nursery window, clear shadows at night and spangled daggers in the day.
I am exhausted. You are glorious. We go on.
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