So often, she will lie in her rocker, quietly inspecting her hands, chewing on her blanket or watching her brothers running mad circles around her.
When, finally, she manages to catch my eye, her arms and legs come to life, little scissors of excitement, her face blooming into that incredible smile.
The reality is that when she is quiet and angelic, time will pass in a flurry of things that need doing and before I know it, I have barely acknowledged her existence for an hour.
Thank god for breastfeeding. The necessity of feeding my daughter forces me to stop and be with her. Just she and I, quiet and gazing, a little hand curled around my thumb, her little mouth breaking suction to grin up at me from time to time.
19 weeks with this sweet little girl. My very own daughter. The novelty has not worn off. I can't imagine how it could.
She struggles to sit up in her rocker, demonstrating a core strength that, frankly, I am envious of. She laughs from her round little belly, a real laugh in response to my chatter, not the involuntary laugh of having that little belly tickled.
And I am tickled. Pink, pink, pink.
Harlow Rose, you are the sweetest blossom.