Today is Aisling's thirteenth Hatching Day, as she puts it. My baby is now a teenager.
Thirteen years ago at this time, Aisling was three and a half hours old and the hospital nurses were already making deliberate moves towards prying the two of us out of our respective bed and bassinette and giving us the bum's rush. What is it with hospitals these days that they'll barely allow you the time to climb off the delivery table and brush your hair before they're all, like, "Thanks for stopping by! Don't forget your pocketbook! Oh, and the baby! Here she is! Hey, will you do the APGAR test when you get home and call us back with the results?"
Anyway, Aisling as a newborn infant was much like she is now -- loud and demanding, cheerful and cuddly. She didn't so much want to be held as she wanted to be worn, and not in one of those fancypantsbaby slings, either. She had no truck with this hands-free style of mothering. She wanted my hands hold. Ing. Her. No excuses.
Aisling still wants that, and scoots up next to me on the sofa every evening, pressing herself into my side -- her cheek, her arm, her leg --so that I can barely tell where I leave off and she begins. That seems logical, because my husband says that she is my Mini-Me. It makes me hope somewhat wistfully that she won't grow up and move too far away for me to hug regularly.
Happy birthday, dear Aisling. We love you, honey.
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