I remember when Stella turned three months old. My best friends were in town and it was the last time I used weeks to describe how old she was to the world, just as I stopped counting in days when she hit number seven. On 5.21.09, she was no longer twelve weeks old. She was three months old and it blew our minds at the time. And it kind of felt monumental, a milestone in her little life.
Even though only ninety some days had passed, the three of us had already been through so much together. Her birth was a thirty-six hour saga that left us in a state of blissful exhaustion. We parented with total abandonment and lots of sleep deprivation. We kept a detailed diary of her feeding and sleeping and pooping and watched her change from day to day. We saw her first smiles and coos and watched television during her three am feedings. I bathed with her in the tub every single day, studying her little limbs as I gently cleaned her on a nightly basis. When she spent a week straight in collicky hell, I had to hold her like a football, her face down in my hands, her legs straddled around my forearm, and take her on long walks around the city. I would sing You Are My Sunshine on repeat until she finally fell asleep, somewhere between our loft and Pershing Square. The camera lived around my neck in those three months and we constantly found ourselves repeating to one another, look at her, look at her, look at her.
We took this photo on her three month mark and quietly congratulated ourselves for making it that far. She was so big and mohawky and full of independence. This was the only way she would let us hold her those days. Girl needed some space.
If it is possible to miss Margot more than yesterday, I miss her even more today, three months to the day since she was here and then wasn't.