Don't let the angelic smile fool you. Look past the sleepy eyes and full cheeks too. She's a tempest, just like the O'Hara, her namesake.
At just under 9 pounds, and less than two feet long, she sleeps in 25 minute bursts, night and day and only while held with two hands. Her mother is going bananas.
When she wakes, that sweet little grin fades from her lips faster than an ice cream melts in hell and she kicks me, then paws at my boobs like a ravenous frat boy.
She poos each time she eats and falls asleep immediately giving me two choices: change her now and wake her or, risk losing the "parent of the year" award that I undoubtedly have coming and leave her to stew in the poo.
That's most often what I do. Go ahead: judge me.
She refuses to take a pacifier but needs to suck all the time. My nipples can barely stand the abuse.
And she's demanding with a prescient knack for finding the worst time to need me: My hands are full of raw noodles and steam is rising from a pot of boiling water; when the three bottles of Gatorade I just drank signal it's time to pee; whenever I try to type a blog post
Dressed in her tiny Mary-Jane socklets she mocks me.
"Ha ha," she thinks to herself, "you'll never get anything done!"
It's true. I don't think I will.
Then she smiles at me with her charming blue eyes. Her perfect lips curl up and there's a cute-as-pie dimple in her right cheek. She snuggles up like a ball bug and rests her tiny head on my shoulder. And I get all gushy and sentimental.
But not for long because relaxed, she poos. And it seeps through her sleeper onto my pants.
The two photos in this post were shot by the incredible Nicole White of the awesome Tynan Studio photo studio in the Annex. Thanks Nicole!