A portrait of my babes once a week in 2014 (31 weeks) - Anna Clementine (top), Florence Willow (above)
You became seven months this week. Seven months crosses over that half a year mark. It sounds far removed from the tiny new borns I cradled against me. And you are both big, beautiful roly, poly babes with delicious folds of skin on arms and behind knees and around ankles. And yet you are still my tiny babes. Seven months is only 30.5 weeks, barely a breath on this earth. My sweet souls that I rock in my arms. My babes that are discovering newness each day. Whose heads are still covered in baby down which gets sweaty as you breastfeed, your bodies against mine.
You do strange things to time. Day after day... Days somehow blend together. They become a time I will refer back to. That time when you were babies, when detail of months fade and distinctions matter less. Yet it is our everything right now and I want to remember these times distinctly. Not as a time but as this time when you were seven months old. The day you slept on my bed with me and a thunderstorm sung it's sweet melody as you napped in the afternoon. The day we popped out for iced coffees and visited the apartment below ours. The day you both enjoyed a dinner of zucchini and corn purée and Florence, you shared my green smoothie for the first time, eagerly lapping the glass, grasping it in your baby-dimpled hands.
Seven months. But a breath on this earth but a life without which I cannot imagine. Thank-you for making each moment come alive for me. For making me feel more. Appreciate more. Love more.