Yesterday marked 4 weeks in the life of my little girl. Four whole weeks.

I wanted to post this last night but instead I was on the couch with an unsettled infant who required permanent attachment to the boob or she would wail. She fed then dozed fitfully before waking herself by chucking up the overload of milk in her tiny belly. More crying would follow, I'd cuddle and pat until I could ignore her furious nuzzling no more and back on the boob she would go.

And repeat. 

I had two zillion things I wanted to get done yesterday but eventually the daylight hours ran out in that way that days have of getting away from you and to-do lists stay stagnant. Or grow longer. I supposed I might tick off one or two things that evening but then the boob/vomit/cry saga began it's endless cycle and I just gave up.

A never-ending to-do list and so very little time to actually do.

But also, a tiny daughter. A lovely little reminder as to why my washing hampers are overflowing along with my breasts, why the ends of my hair have dried into crunchy noodles after being vomited on and why I can.not.stop.smiling.

People ask me if she is a good baby. I say she is a dream. She doesn't sleep through the night, she prefers to be held, she upchucks regularly. But still, I'm not lying. To me, she is a dream. A newborn dream. Feeding regularly (feels like constantly!), wanting closeness to Mumma, crying when she needs something. To me, these are normal, newborn things and I try not to buy into the idea of what she should be doing.

Of course, there are times when I place her down sleeping soundly and run, finally, to the shower only to have her start to cry again just minutes later. "For God's sake, baby!" I say, exasperated and just desperate for hot water and silence.

I juggle as best I can. Often her feeds take place in the rocking chair with at least one other child squished in beside us for cuddles. And so it goes. I am stretched paper thin sometimes but I am muddling through. I absolutely have my moments where anywhere but here seems ideal.

But then I look at her little face. At Luca. At Zig. Bren and I catch one another's eye.

And it really is this simple; I fucking love my life.