I love the way Najwa looks at me in the morning after four hours of sleep. In which I catch some more z’s then wake up and she’s still looking at me two hours later wondering when am I going to stop sleeping like a baby. I love the way she giggles when we play peek-a-boo then has the confused look when I tire out at 15 minutes. And then I keep going and she acts as if we’re just getting started.
I love when I unstrap her diaper to see last night’s dinner, and she looks at me and smiles reminding me she needs me as much as I need her. I love the way my finger would slip and some of that dinner gets under my nails knowing not everyone has that opportunity unless it’s their own dinner.
I love the way she cries when I step away to fetch her bottle, as if to say she’d rather have me near than eat. And how her mouth starts working even before the nipple reaches her face. I love the way she passes gas while sitting on my lap as if it’s ambient noise and anyone who thinks it’s rude doesn’t understand how it feels to trap that gas inside the body.
I love the way Najwa yawns, mouth opened wide yet so small and so perfect. I love the way she swats at her eyes to chase away the approaching sleep not realizing she doesn’t stand a chance. I love the way her body uncurls in slow motion as sleep drifts in, the way her limbs settle where they are, the way her eyes slowly seals out the light and accepts sleep. For the moment.
I love the way her chest rises and falls when she sleeps, a purer sign of peace than a dove or olive branch. I love the way she’ll fall asleep in any position, while sitting up, while holding her in a standing position but especially sprawled out on my chest as if I was a Temper-Pedic custom-fitted for her tiny frame. I love the way she snores, a signal she has entered the deepest realms of REM, dreaming of shapes, bottles of formula and all the objects she finds a way to stick in her mouth.
 |
I love the surprise of how she awakes, with either a smile on her face as if to say she knew I’d be there or a massive explosion of sound, crossed between a cry, a shriek and outrage of who took away the world free of sirens, talking heads on television and silly parents making silly faces and silly sounds waiting for her response.
I love the way she’ll stare at a bottle wondering why it won’t grow legs and jump into her mouth. I love the way she grabs at the bottle as to say, “I got this,” only for it to slip out her mouth and she cries out blaming someone for taking her bottle. I love how she grunts and breathes while she’s eating determined to empty the contents before someone takes it out her mouth again.
I love the way she so casually lets out a milky burp, followed by the sigh heard after a long day’s work. I love the way she slouches on the sofa with her belly sticking out, a perfectly round sated stomach giving a clue as to what to expect in her diaper in a moment.
| More Posts About Najwa |
I love the way she instantly grabs her feet when I remove her diaper, as if she’s keeping holding them out the way, only to smash them in the dirty diaper as soon as I turn to grab a wipe. And when I grab a few more for her feet, I love the way she turns into a faucet, creating a puddle on my side of the bed, reminding me why I should start using the changing pad. I love how she reminds me what she ate because her waste is the same color as her yellow banana puree, orange from the sweet potatoes, green from the peas and an unidentifiable color when there’s a little bit of everything in there.
I love the way she drools all day as if she’s Pavlov dog and the bell won’t stop ringing. When everyone said diapers would be the biggest expense, I love the way we’re always looking for more bibs, though we end up also buying more diapers. And formula. And toys. And clothes. And I love how there’s nothing left to spend on me.
I love how I raise her over my head and beam at that toothless smile, before an avalanche of spittage splashes on my face. And I love when I get dressed for the day but have to change before I get started because she blesses my clothes with spit up that runs down a pants leg or right down the middle of my shirt.
I love how she stares at the baby in the mirror and stares at her and stares at her then looks at me as if to ask if she’s competition. I love the way she watches the fork go from the plate to my mouth wondering why she can’t have any of that. I love how she goes ballistic for unknown reasons then calms like the eye of a storm when I pick her up, as if nothing is wrong other than I wasn’t holding he close enough.
I love the sounds she makes all day, sounds that have no words to describe them and you never hear them until your child makes them. I love the way she tries to grab her own hand, while that same hand is trying to grab the other hand. And when she’s making those sounds then takes a five second break to stare at her hand wondering what it is and who it belongs to.
I love how she dictates what time we go to bed, fiercely defiant when she’s not ready regardless if it’s past midnight. I love how when she finally does doze off she lets us pick her up to put her in the crib, her limp body not moving a twitch in complete trust we’ll take care of her. I love watching her as she sleeps, the peacefulness in her breathing and innocence in her cute little face.
I love going to bed knowing every morning I wake up, she’ll be there and we get to do it all over again.
