We’re in that weird transition time where I think it’s time to quit counting the girls’ age in weeks and start counting them in months. But we’re still a week away from three months, so I’m going to celebrate the fact that at 7:14 and 7:15 tonight, respectively, my girls will have been outside babies for twelve entire weeks. 84 days. 2, 016 hours since my heart went from beating inside my chest to sleeping in cribs at night. (Well, the first few weeks they were actually in a Pack ‘n Play at the foot of our bed. They were unceremoniously moved to the nursery due to Brigid’s varied – and loud – nocturnal squawks. It’s a good thing Marlowe’s our sound sleeper.)
This morning I was ready to leave for work, and had already had a few hours of cuddling with a sleeping Brigid. I knew Marlowe was awake in her crib, because I had peeked in at her. About eleven times. Willing her to make enough noise to justify getting her out of the crib for a quick snuggle before I had to leave. Somehow it seemed wrong to pluck a baby contentedly chewing on her hands out of her crib just because I wanted to. But I did it anyway. And when I went in to get her, she turned her head and greeted me with a grin so huge it couldn’t possibly fit on a twelve-week-old baby.
It doesn’t help that her sister has one to match.
Happy twelve weeks, my beautiful girls.