Kathrine Mary Katie For Short

A look at my sweet new born baby girl. This was written a long while ago. She just turned 18.

As I rock her, I look at her and smell her.  I listen for her tiny sounds.  She inspires me to write of her.

Her bouquet is sweet, that of wild flowers and a clean spring breeze.  It relaxes me.  I nod off.  Feeling my head fall suddenly forward, I am reoriented to my surroundings.

Her hair tickles my nostrils as I breathe in her sweetness.  She is soft against me.  She is as soft as a cloud would be, if only you could touch one. 

Her hair is dark and goes every which way.  It covers her ears and curls at the base of her neck.  It falls like angel’s hair around her face.

Her forehead wrinkles in an attempt to open her eyes.  It is a struggle to open them.  Her eye lids quiver.  Then one eye opens slowly and is followed by the other.  They are framed with lengthy lashes.  She gets them from her daddy.  The color of her eyes is almost undefinable, blue yet not blue.  They are a pool of blue-grey slightly dampened by brown near her pupils.  The whites of her eyes hold a cloudy blue tinge.

I’m rocking, still rocking.  Inhale.  Exhale.

She has my mouth.  At rest, it appears still, almost angered.  Yet it is willing to give a smile if provoked.  Her lips peek just below her nose like twin mountain summits.  There’s a tiny callused spot nestled at the base of the summits.  It sloughs off occasionally, only to reappear.  It portrays the struggle to nourish herself and survive.  Such innocence is already marred by survival’s battle.

Her nose is not that of a baby.  It’s unique, her very own. 

Her pear shaped face is outlined by a pudgy double chin. 

There are tiny pimples and red blotches spilled over her face.  They seem to be strategically sprinkled into place like the stars in the heavens.  They serve only to enhance her loveliness.

The rocking chair squeaks a little, and the radiator whistles a bit.  In the other room I can hear the cats chasing one another.  I rock and her fragrance continues to fills me.  Her lower lip quivers and takes a pouting position.  It won’t be long now before her little mouth opens and a gasp escapes.  Then the gasps will turn to whimpers and then to tiny cries.

The eyes she struggled so hard to open will close tightly.  Her tiny face redden and squish all up.

That is my daughter, Kathrine Mary.  We call her Katie for short.  She is hungry again.

Reviews

[Buffi]

This brings back so many precious memories. Thank you so much for sharing this.

[Emily B]

Aw, you've described her beautifully. There is nothing like holding that tiny, warm bundle close in your arms. And rocking, just rocking. Your descriptions were all magically able to evoke the smell, the warmth, from my own rocking. Thanks for sending this my way. It was just beautiful.

[TL Boehm]

I absolutely love the descriptions in this - I remember how my own used to change colors when they were hungry. Exactly like you said it...their little faces just squish up. this is a great read. I hope you keep it for when they are older....it would be a beautiful gift.

[BrightEyes]

I so miss those times when mine were little...they are replaced by other everyday tiny miracles...but there is nothing like rocking them to sleep and holding them so close, you become one. This is a wonderful write...you convey all that emotion so well...keeping based in the reality of it all as well. Excellent!

laura :)