You are asleep on your Manamana on a rainy cold winter day in New York City. In about an hour I will change you and wrestle you into a cute sweatshirt with a dinosaur on it and then wrap you up in your bunting at pull on your soft gray hat with little bear ears - all children's outerwear has animal ears now, I don't know why - and strap you into your bassinet stroller and then I will wrap myself up in scarves and socks and puffy coats and gloves and after all that we will wheel our way through the rain to meet my editor for lunch. Your first high powered editorial meeting, and my first tentative step back into my professional life.
Much of my job pretends to be social, which as an introvert who is quite possibly on the spectrum, albeit subclinically, I find baffling and exhausting. But I genuinely like my editor, and I think she genuinely likes me. She has sent you two baby gifts so far, a sweet towel set and an unexpected shipment of clothing, including the aforementioned dinosaur sweatshirt. This is why you are wearing it. I can imagine gestures that will appeal to other people, sometimes. Let us hope she likes me - you, let's be honest, you're the big draw here - well enough that it matters less that not so very many people bought my latest book.
You are sweet and chubby and definitely look bigger than a 2 1/2 month old baby. You are in baby clothes sized 3-6 months, and the last couple of nights you have fussed more than before at bedtime, which might spoil my parents' hopes for a dinner on boxing day involving you. But you are you, and you are growing, and right now you are in a rather large developmental leap, and you will not be rushed. Nor should you be.
You are in the midst of the first chapter of your life, with your first big editor lunch only an hour away.
And that is where things stand on this, your tenth week of life.
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