I can’t say I’ve never been a baby person. I remember cuddling all sorts of wee ones in the church nursery and on plenty of weekend nights spent babysitting as a teen. But since growing up enough to have any responsibilities at all, small sticky hands and red crying faces have seemed a little less cute than they did, well, annoying.

When I was pregnant with my first daughter, though, I forgot all those kid-averse tendencies. Caught up in the excitement of becoming a mother and adding a tiny person to our family, the fact that I’m not the biggest fan of tiny people escaped me. Still, even the romance of tiny clothes and name books and nursery furniture couldn’t completely change who I was.

The first few months after she was born are a blur at best. A traumatic, early delivery coupled with heavy medication and weeks in the NICU stole the memories that sleep deprivation and stress would have left me, and now I rely on the hundreds of photos we took in those days to tell my own story.

But I’m certain I didn’t suddenly morph into the kind of woman who sniffs baby lotion and gazes dreamily at baby socks and says things like, “Ooohhh, I just want to eat you up!” when faced with a scrunchy-faced baby.

Though never diagnosed with any depression or disorder, hindsight tells me I suffered from a hefty dose of shock in my early days of motherhood. Delivering a three-pound baby nearly two months early can do that to a person. It can also make a person less than interested in (and less than attached to) her new daughter for a few months.

Thankfully, that phase didn’t last. I know that for sure because it wasn’t long before I became the obnoxious kind of mama who covers her desk at work with no less than seven framed photos of her baby. I became that mom who finally gets away for a weekend with friends and then WON’T SHUT UP about how adorable and brilliant and {obviously} perfect her daughter is.

As my daughter grew and I healed, I fell deeper and deeper in love with her. Though I remain convinced that my husband - who loved snuggling with our newborn daughter best when she slept most the day and couldn’t roll away when we situated her in the Boppy on the couch - is WAY more a baby person than me, it turns out that didn’t stop me from loving my own baby. I might not be a baby person, but I quickly became a “my daughter person.”

Still, when I found out I was pregnant with our second child last year, a small part of me panicked. What if I can’t love another baby? I’m NOT A BABY PERSON! What if I don’t like this new baby at all?! Terrified that I couldn’t possibly love another child as much as I do our now-six-year-old, I begged God, “Please help me love this baby!” for a good three trimesters.

It seems silly now, a mere four weeks after that new baby joined our family. As I neglect my blog and the dishes and even that novel I’ve been looking forward to reading and saved for just this season for the chance to sit and look at our new tiny person, I obviously didn’t have to worry about not loving her. Like all my friends who mother multiple kids assured me, it just happens. Your heart just makes room.

How does that happen? Is it like the Grinch who stole Christmas? The one whose heart grew three sizes? Did my heart actually get bigger to allow room for this 9-pound (crying, scrunchy-faced) infant?

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. The important thing is that while I’m still not much of a baby person, I remain solidly a “my daughter person.”

Today I’m praying that, despite a gigantic case of baby brain that’s robbed me of my ability to reason or write coherently or remember anything important, I hold onto this lesson. I’m praying that I never forget that, no matter how I feel about any one stage of childhood, I am an “Annalyn person” and an “Adrienne person.” I pray I always remember it - and make sure they know and remember it.

This newborn stage is crazy hard. Did I go without this much sleep last time? I CAN’T REMEMBER. But memories of toddler power struggles and potty training messes and grocery store tantrums are tickling the edge of my faulty brain, reminding me that every stage is crazy hard. That is true and unforgettable and . . . not important at all. Because whether or not I’m a baby person or a toddler person or a teenager person or a people person, I am a “my daughters person.”

Right now that means I will read every Fancy Nancy book we can get our hands on and make one more obnoxious bracelet while trying not to roll my eyes at her request for another play of her Taylor Swift playlist. And it means - if you can believe it - that I will pet my baby’s soft head and bury my nose in her neck and, yes, threaten to eat her tiny baby toes.