Three weeks into this adventure: we're all still alive!

Finley sleeps like this. She looks like some sort of little baby prophet.

Except when she sleeps like a prizefighter. 

She loves to snuggle, especially with Dad. (Note that I'm getting the elbow.) 

Of course, all of this adorable sleeping and snuggling occurs during the day. At night she has taken to cluster feeding (an actual hostage situation for Mom) and often gives me this face. It means she's on the rampage, and no one's getting any sleep for a long, long time. My adorable, patient sister-in-law Lisa told me that Finley's cousin Tyler (just a day younger than she) has "his days and nights mixed up," which sounds so cute and hapless. I tend to think of my evenings more in terms of falling under the reign of a holy (hungry) terror.

The tiny tyrant is three weeks old today. We can hardly believe it. Time really does fly (except for the hours between midnight and 4am.) Staying home with a newborn is, like everything else, exactly as exhilarating and frustrating and exhausting as everyone says. Yet another one of those things you just don't get until you do it. We still have a ton of moments of gazing at her adoringly, disbelieving that she's ours, that she's growing so fast, and that we could possibly be so lucky. I cannot imagine- mostly- leaving her with someone else and going back to work.

I also have a fair number of moments during which I wish I could go back to my quiet office and crawl under the desk and never come out. Seth's busy with school so does not have nearly as many of these. He's a saint at night, though, when he gets home late from class- occasionally to a crying wife and baby, thanks to those evening cluster feeds. Last night he took a fussy Finley for hours while I passed out on the couch, from sheer exhaustion and frustration and still-hurting stitches. This is hard. My heart literally bleeds for single Moms- and all the de facto single Moms thanks to military obligations- that I know. I don't know how they do it. This whole adventure is without doubt a two person affair, and Seth has been a veritable saint. Finley and I would have a rough go on our own.

The crazy good moments, of course, eclipse what we have come to refer to as the baby witching hours. We take long walks in the afternoons, having been blessed with gorgeous weather of late. We have finally mastered the boba wrap- and Finley mostly sleeps through her vitamin D fix. Seth and I crack up when she snorts like a pig at mealtimes, and only new parents could get as much joy as we do out of her funny faces while she dirties a fresh diaper.

Bathtime is Dad time, and she couldn't be cuter in her hooded towel.

We're beyond grateful for our parents. My Mom cooks for us often, takes Finley and I for walks, and watches her while I go to the commissary for provisions or stop by work to tie up loose ends there. (Now that I've finally managed to master the art of driving with Finley without stopping every 12 seconds to make sure she's breathing.) It's unbelievably hard to leave her, and currently I will only do it with our parents. So we're counting our blessings there.

Seth's parents were here over the weekend, and it was a terrific visit. We were grateful they had given us a couple weeks for us to get into a semi-routine, and for me to be able to walk again. (It was a pretty miserable first two weeks.) Since we could all enjoy it- it was an even bigger treat to have them. Finley wrapped her grandparents around her tiny finger immediately- and I got away for a long-overdue hair appointment and even squeezed in a Target run. (The unedited batch of photos is here, and they're priceless.)

Well, I'm being summoned by a  ravenous beast. We're having a snowy day at home, and I've finally caught up on laundry and dishes while our little night owl snoozes through her first winter weather. But first-

I can't get enough photos of Seth and his baby. This one cracks me up, and is the obvious choice for photo of the week. Two peas in a pod.

And then there were three.

It turns out that everything they say is true. Labor really does suck. And it's LONG. Or mine was, anyway. Hospital gowns don't close in the back. There is an awful lot of blood. Breastfeeding is hard. Driving away from the hospital with an infant is terrifying. When you get them home, they don't sleep at night. And they go through an insane amount of diapers. When they cry and can't be soothed, it's the most powerless and awful feeling on the planet. Your best friend gives you perineal cream with a note that says "we never have to talk about this," and you will forever consider this the pinnacle of gift-giving. You worry about literally everything and are transfixed by the baby monitor. Postpartum hormones are no joke. Commercials for car insurance can actually make you cry. There are days you can't manage to take a shower or brush your teeth, and couldn't care less.

The first time you hear your baby cry, your heart stops and your life changes forever. There is no greater bonding experience between two people than holding hands and locking eyes and trying to block out the pain and the worry of labor. You fall in love with your husband all over again when you see him hold your daughter for the first time. And again when he won't let anyone else change her diaper. And again when he snuggles with her in bed in the morning so you can try and get that shower. And again when you hear him singing "Danny Boy" to her from the kitchen, and see tears in his eyes as he watches her sleep. You look at her perfect little face and marvel that you somehow made this miracle. You vow every day to be better, to deserve her. You want to thank your own Mom 100 times a day, and ask her how she did it. There is a "Mom club" you didn't even know about, and it is amazing. But nowhere near as amazing as the feeling of being a family now, instead of "just" a couple.

So the last ten days have been a crazy whirlwind of dizzying heights and painful lows and new discoveries and changes, big and small. 

My water broke at 6:30pm last Tuesday, the day after my due date. 22.5 hours later, at 4:56pm on the 5th of November, Finley Savanna was born, finally hauled out with the help of forceps. Her tiny cry upon being eventually dislodged was the best sound we had ever heard. She emerged looking like a prizefighter, thanks to the forceps and her rough journey into the world (having been stuck under my pelvic bone for most of the previous day and night). The hospital time was a blur. She couldn't nurse at first thanks to a busted lip, so we spent a rough couple days over that (while Seth fed her pumped milk with a syringe and his pinkie), eventually hiring a lactation consultant and taking her back to the hospital for a frenotomy. She barely cried for the procedure, or for her first shots. Her daddy couldn't be more proud of his tough little girl.

We're gradually getting into a routine at home, although she threw us for a loop today with her first growth spurt. She's a voracious eater and a good sleeper. I'm starting to be able to walk again (having required a billion stitches), and we take family walks around the yard and watch her little eyes dart around as she takes in the world. We, of course, think she's a prodigy. (And she's definitely, exceptionally strong.) She's already mastered FaceTime, is wild about her Dad, seems to be partial to Joe Walsh guitar solos, and doesn't hate a good diaper change. Seth is already back in school (writing papers during major life events is becoming a family tradition) but never skips out on diaper changes, does the grocery shopping, brings home flowers, and never mentions the fact that Finley and I perpetually smell like spilled milk and rarely bother to put on shirts.

The very best time of the day is morning family snuggle time. 

We've slowed down a little bit, but we're enjoying every second of this time at home with our little miracle.

And we did manage to get the Christmas tree up today... Walters family tradition mandates this about a month before everyone else. We're only a little behind. Not bad, all things considering.

Babywatch 2014.

Well, November 3^rd (the big d-day) has almost come and gone. Baby Nieman continues to show no signs of dislodging from her comfortable (for her) position, and the obnoxious baby apps have switched from alarmist (“Do you have varicose veins? Bad skin? Hemorrhoids? Fat ankles? No sex? Gas? Nothing to wear? The constant urge to pee?”) to patronizing (“Still no baby? Your time will come!”)

It’s Monday, so I did the only thing that made sense. I got up, went for a swim, had breakfast with Mom, and went to work. Seth and I have settled into the thought that “this baby will come when she’s ready,” which is kind of nice. Viewed through those particular rose-colored glasses, every diaper-free day following a decent night’s sleep is a gift.

Not that we’re not excited for her to join us. It’s just that we’re not wishing away this time, either.

So we had another quiet weekend at home. November weather had finally arrived (although around here, it’s probably not here to stay), and Saturday we hung out in bed all morning and watched the gusts of wind blow new piles of leaves into our previously cleaned-up yard. We watched Army’s devastating loss to Air Force on the couch, and then went for a bike ride.

Oh, and I cooked. Vats and vats of soup and other freezable stuff. I must be in “nesting” mode, and since the nursery is basically ready and I’m always kind of a fanatic about the cleanliness of the house, it’s manifested itself in my sudden doomsday prepping where food is concerned. I think Seth is getting offended (the implication being that we will literally starve to death if I don’t cook every night), but he’s been pretty indulgent about my insistence that we peel ten pounds of potatoes and roast a farm’s worth of broccoli and butternut squash. Luckily, my favorite thing on the planet is this soup, because we’re going to be eating it for months.

Sunday I had a Kennedy Center date with Michelle and Grace, who was on her best behavior for her first “big girl show,” the world premiere of highly acclaimed musical The Little Dancer. We had a terrific time, and it was an incredible production.

Seth took Ashton and his son Gabe to try out the new fishing rod Seth got Gabe for his birthday. And then dragged me up to Damascus for a farewell barbecue for the Causeys.

Oh. I almost forgot. We also survived Halloween. With almost no trick or treaters and having just survived a seriously long week (Seth, especially, had been pulling late nights cramming for a big midterm), we lit our pumpkins, ate a few of the chocolate covered pretzels we had stocked up on for the occasion, and passed out on the couch. (The one on the left has to be the photo of the week. Are we ready to be tired new parents or what?)