She's sleeping now. Grunting and tweeting a meter away from me, snuggled up in blankets, a common reality these days. I doubt the novelty of this newborn time will ever wear off. Her little noises are activating my Mama-body. Milk rushes into my breasts with a tingle, ready to feed her when she awakes. Any moment. My life is a sweet concoction of tiny-baby magic and exhaustion too. Something about unavoidable repetition sends me into a trance-like lull.

Feeding a human child is a strange thing. Her sustenance comes from my body. My milk is what she eats - it's all she eats. Just over three weeks ago I had never fed a child from my breast before, never felt milk pour from my body, yet it's become so natural, so quick. Several times a day.

She wakes up with little murmurs and croaky stretches. Her hands move about as though telling an old folk tale to the people of her dream space before returning here to us. Eyelids flutter her awake. Wide-eyed she gazes about the room, opens her mouth and lets out a sharp, distinct "Aah" sound which means, "Milk!" I feel impressed. My baby girl's (kind of) first word! I wonder what conversations we'll have when she's grown. What thoughts she'll share, what lessons she'll teach. I pray that I will be home enough for her to pour herself into freely. For now, I pick her up, pull her body close to mine. The chirrups, wails and space between the lines are enough for me to understand she wants feeding.

"I hear you, my baby" I say, tugging at my bra as she head butts my chest with an open mouth, seeking. "Here you go, Mama's coming" I smile. She latches and suckles, looking up at me, brown eyes as big as a Pixar kid's. Her faces are my favorite. Endless and animated, forever propelling laughter through her parents' bodies. Screwface. Happy smile. Pouts for days.

She focuses on feeding, glugging away. Coughs, splutters, lets out a cry to be burped cause she suckled too fast and drank too much. I sigh, attempting to manage the spilled milk flooding from me and sit her up to coax out a belch. Papa's still the best at this! I wish I could burp her as well as he does. Pats on the back until a little bubble of air pops through her throat. Sometimes I pass her to him. This time I win. She throws herself back, nuzzles into my body looking for the tap. I watch to see if she's gonna fuss around without drinking, or go back to feeding again. When she fusses, I stop and find other ways to occupy our time. Songs and dances, kisses and cuddles, pats on the bum. Now though, she downing baby pints at the Boob Bar again. Glug, glug. More, more. Belch, glug. All the way to drunk... Milk drunk. Another novel sight that fills me with fun.

Our little drunkard lays back, limp and happy, fully fed. No longer wide-eyed, she squints up at us, satisfied. Milk drips down her face and across her body. I feel happy that her and I have found this feeding dance. That I have enough milk for her, and that she suckles so well. A little bit of spit-up trickles down her chin. Her tummy gurgles happily and we laugh at the sweetness of her full-of-stories face saying, "Thank you for the milk, Mama."