My dear Babycakes,
It is almost impossible to believe, but you have already been on Earth for six whole months. I have failed in writing to you, but I am attempting to get it all down now. I remember when we were planning for your arrival, thinking about when you'd hit the six month mark, and how July 2013 truly felt a lifetime away. Even after you arrived in frigid, frigid January, I couldn't imagine a summer. I couldn't imagine you being more than this tiny, helpless babylette who really couldn't tell me much besides when I was clearly doing a terrible, terrible thing to you (examples: putting a onesie over your head, letting you be cold (sorry! It was January! and -40! and we even put a space heater in the bedroom for extra heat...sometimes, you just gotta have a diaper change.) I called you Mount Saint Ruby in those moments, because you would erupt in angry feelings, but then just as quickly drift back off into babysleepland.
My sweet girl. You are already five months old. How can that be? I scroll through my phone photos and I see the progression, but it still doesn't quite compute.
At five weeks on the dot, you smiled at me. Real smiles. At five months, you smile these giant gummy smiles, complete with a dimple. You scrunch your nose and squinch your eyes; your dad and I call it the "twinkles" smile. You have chubby little thighs and sweet little feet, both of which I kiss over and over and over until you squeal and wave your arms in the air.
You seem to love life, my little one, and I hope that is something that never fades. You watch Ernie and Murray tussle on the floor and smile at their silliness. Your dad walks in the room and it's like all the rest of the world falls away—you gaze at him adoringly and do whatever it takes to catch his eye.
Everywhere we go, people comment on "what a good baby" you are. You smile at them, coo, and you let all of our friends snuggle you, which brings everyone no end of delight. As long as you are with people, you are happy. You are so good, in fact, that Mama and Daddy sometimes forget that you need to have quiet time, or take a nap, or whatever. Sleeping during the day is not so much your thing, and neither is sleeping by yourself. I get it. Cuddles are so nice.
When you were first born, I would lay on my side nad nurse you in bed at night and you would fit from my boob to my belly button. A tiny little bundle. Now we lie together and you can stretch from my shoulders to damn near my knees. When I lay you on the bed, you automatically roll on your side, smiling your gummy smile at me (if you aren't squawking at me to hurry up, that is), and you hold out your hands in just the formation you like them while you nurse to sleep at night.
You thrash around in the morning before you open your eyes, as if coming to for you is like trying to find the surface of the water. I get it. It's hard for me to wake up, too. But the great thing about it is that you often wake me just a few moments before you open your eyes for the first time each day. And each day those huge cornflower-blues open up and look right at me. You blink a couple times, as if to ascertain whether you are dreaming, and then you smile. Those few quiet moments before the day gets started have become so precious to me. I love being with you in those first few moments of consciousness. You often want to get moving right away, but sometimes if I snuggle you up tight, we just melt together and whisper and smile at each other and it is our special time. Baby, you have made me love 5:45 a.m. It's a damn miracle.
I can say with all honesty that I have loved every stage of you. The snuggly, gangly, blurry-eyed swaddled-newborn phase, the three-month hey-am-i-awake-and-is-that-my-hand phase. This five-and-six month phase has been a dream. You are sweet and smart, inquisitive and easily pleased. Watching your ten tiny toes barely graze the floor as you hop around in your exersaucer, watching you curl up into a pretzel to eat your toes, seeing you figure out how to turn over and push up on your kissable biceps... with your one long lock of hair that swoops up in front, your giant eyes with daddy's eyelashes, your dimple--you look like a living, breathing Kewpie doll. You have tried mangoes (which made you smile, even as you got full-body shivers), avocado (you made a terrible face but lunged for more as soon as I offered it), and you try to commandeer drinking glasses ... you tried your own sippy cup this week successfully...you didn't even need my help.
Some days I look at you and my eyes fill with tears, because I am so happy to be your mom. There are a few things I am good at, and a lot of things that I am not, but I remember not long after you were born I was rocking you in bed, a total mess: bathrobe, hair everywhere, crap all over the bedroom. Daddy came in and asked what we were up to. My eyes were already full as I told him: This. I was meant to do this.
It's true, baby. I have never felt more purposeful than when I am with you. I know in my heart of hearts I want you to grow and change and hit all your milestones, but my baby, I am not in a hurry for you to grow anywhere. You take your sweet time. I will enjoy every single second of it.
Love,
Mama
