3. Dear Noble,

Today you are 23 days new. Your tear ducts are starting to wake up, I'm finding more and more debris in the tiny, dark recess between your thumb and forefinger. and your umbilical stump is waiting patiently under your dresser to be saved from whence it fell last week.  Your're averaging at least one new experience and visitor daily, you're coming to accept the reality that pacifiers require some commitment, and kick whichever breast you're not nursing from in appreciation of our expert parenting. You dress exclusively in second hand fashions, tolerate tummy time through muffled sobs and show great poise when hiccuping. You spend most hours eating, sleeping, or crying about not eating or sleeping.

You go from this...

...to this with charming nonchalance.

Your smiles set off a chain reaction of bliss in anyone around, and your tears are just salty enough to bring out the flavor in our blurry days. You are crusty, smelly and very easy to love.

You enjoyed the ambiance of our neighborhood cantina, nursed al fresco at the farmer's market, and saw all your grandparents this past weekend.

We also squeezed in a double rainbow, which I hope you'll remember because your dad had a hell of a time trying to photograph it.

You've been wrapped up tight against Daddy's heart beat while he played a two-handed video game and again against me while I did some two-handed gardening. We consider this to be "revolutionary."

 Thanks Messinas!

Yesterday I left you for 3 hours while I saw a movie, then took you to dinner at the Nortons' so you could be licked by a puppy and pawed at by your future babysitters (not pictured).

Then the unthinkable happened. We brought you home, I read you a story while you nursed for a reasonable 30 minutes, then your dad walked you to sleep. You stayed in this state for almost 7 hours. Dad is (predictably) optimistic about tonight. I am terrified.

Sleep well, dream girl.

                    Love,

                    Mom