At 10 weeks, Penelope's eyelashes are already longer than mine. Her belly smells like a peach, and her hair smells like honey. On walks, she avidly takes in the sky and the trees, her eyes alternately darting around to a million things, or training intently on some object of fascination. She's round-eyed with disbelief in strange rooms, and on elevator rides. She can't wait to get going-- constantly kicking and testing her weight on her legs, pulling insistently at her garments and my hair, and straining to sit up. Her emotions are so complete, yet so capricious-- she transitions instantaneously from smiling and braying her heart out with joy and hard-wired charm, to whimpering and scrunching her face with frustration and fatigue. She is entering a period of awareness and rapid learning about her surroundings, and with it comes both the joy of discovery and the frustrating sense of her own helplessness. I can't wait for her to grow and learn and see and do. But I also desperately want to preserve these moments of her babyhood, 10 weeks of them already gone forever.
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