My sweet baby girl is 5 weeks old. She is smiling up at us with love shining from her navy grey eyes. She is about to graduate from 0000 clothes to 000, that first little wistfulness for her mother. She is fascinated by and (wisely) wary of her brother.

 Her little bones have healed. Her cuts and scrapes have cleared, though one eye brow is still scarred, and faint red marks remain below the places that the forceps pulled. She is perfect, and we love her so.
We took her to meet her great grandfather on the weekend just past. Out of the 8 people of that generation who are her great grandparents, my grandfather, PaPa, is the only one still remaining in this world. One of the reasons for Suzanne’s name is to remember a tiny baby, Gail Suzanne Perry, born 60 odd years ago to PaPa and MaMa. It brings tears to my eyes writing that Gail Suzanne died of her forceps birth injuries at 3 days old. We had already decided on Suzanne as a name for our several reasons, but since Suzie was born I have thought often of my grandmother having to bury that cherished baby, and I have wished that MaMa was here to see this birth wounded great grand daughter, safe and healed, and beloved, carrying part of the name that belonged to that other -her-  baby girl.
PaPa asked if we had spelled the name the same as Gail Suzanne, and though I have seen the name on her tiny grave many times, I had never heard him speak of his little daughter.

 

Linking up with #IBOT over at Essentially Jess today