7 Weeks

Yesterday Olive was 7 weeks old. Each week passes as though it's three days, not seven, making our time with her seem like it's been only three weeks. This doesn't bode well for the future.

The other day, the girl at the health food store - who saw Olive for the first time when she helped me load a 50-lb bag of short-grain brown rice into the car the day we left the hospital - noted that she had my nose. I'd noticed that right off the bat, but was impressed that someone else could also see the resemblance. So I guess she'll have my nose - Gi-Gi's nose - a trait I'm proud to have passed on to her. She's looking more and more blue-eyed as of late. Also, her peepers are wide open, unlike my slits-for-eyes when I was a baby; those are from Rob, all the way.

Her behavior outside of the house is remarkable; on Saturday she accompanied me on errands to the hardware store, health food store, and grocery store, without so much as a peep, then sat through a good hour and a half's worth loud middle and high school music at the Washington County Music Festival (Rob was lending his trombone talents to the jazz band), needing only a little bit of bouncing to keep her in good spirits. On Sunday she attended two of Zoe's basketball games as part of a tournament (they were the runners up, losing the championship game by only two points), and was once again the picture of perfection; she saves her outbursts for the homefront, like I did for 95% of my childhood. At least she knows how to contain it around company.


She's steadily gaining weight; we haven't had her weight checked in a few weeks, but given the amount she's consuming - 7-8 ounces 5-6 times a day (35-48 ounces) - she's on the fast track to outgrowing her newborn-sized clothing. I read somewhere that a baby ought to be taking in at least 24 ounces a day - one ounce for every hour; perhaps that's wrong, but she seems to be getting more than her fair share, but she wears it well, to use a Rod Stewartism. Nothing beats a fat, bald baby.