My darling little Bug,
I’m sorry to say but your nickname has stuck, and I fear that after 3 months of repetition, you shall forevermore be referred to as “Bug.” I’m sure that this will come back to haunt me when you hit your tween years, but for now, you don’t get much say in the matter.
Not that you aren’t trying desperately to communicate with mommy and daddy. Your range of noises and sounds has grown exponentially this month, and we’re beginning to decipher your little language of babbles and coos and squawks. As I’ve mentioned, you not only have a range of expressive orations, you chose to compete with my mighty vocal cords for loudest in the room. It gets more difficult daily to hold a telephone conversation or iSight without being drowned out by your Scuttle-like wail. Yes, I’ve decided Scuttle is the best character with whom to reference said squawk.
You have a very dear “ooh, ooh, ooh” that you coo while kicking your arms and legs furiously when you see something that intrigues you or catches your eye. Sunflowers are your newest obsession. Just yesterday when your daddy stood you in front of them, you reached out your dainty hands and grabbed a fistful of petals which you feverishly tried to shove in your mouth. Daddy stopped you, thank god, as that would not have been good for the bazooka. At all.
You also kick and stomp with much determination when you are in your crib and watch the creepy, tacky, cracked-out “Sunny Sunshine” toy your Momar gave you. It’s one of those horrendous toys bedazzled in bright primary colors, with lights, and eerie musical lullabies. I’m sure someone stoned would find it equally as exhilarating as you do. You love that damn thing. So in the nursery it stays. Ceiling fans and your own reflection in a mirror cause an equally hypnotized state of being, you little narcissist you.
You experience an unmatched joy when you see your Clickity-Clacks (a flying cow mobile) soar over your head while lying on your changing table. Your ability to see Sir Clickity Clacks marked a huge milestone in your development. During month one, you loved to gaze at the two dimensional, black and white sheep sticker named “Moritmor” on the wall, then in month two you graduated to your fuzzy stuffed animal, Zack the Zebra. And now, the object of your affection is clearly your flapping Clickity Clacks.
While your visual interests have evolved, one thing has been constant since the day you arrived: your absolute adoration of being naked, on your changing table. Truly, nothing brings you more joy. If you’re in an ornery state, I hear your daddy say, “Well I guess we know what time it is… NEKKID TIME.” And sure enough, within moments of feeling your bare buns in the breeze, a smile brightens your face. A HUGE debt of gratitude is owed to your great-grandparents for purchasing that piece of furniture for your nursery. I fear that your vigorous stomp, something you’ve come to do with great enthusiasm, may split the table in half. But there is no place in the world that you love more than your changing table. That has been true from the start.
But you are no longer that wee blob of an infant that I met three months ago. You are now truly an interactive little babe, who giggles and smiles and makes your mommy’s heart melt each time you show such jubilation. Your giggle gives you the hiccups, which make you cranky, but that doesn’t stop your parents from trying with all their might and ridiculous facial expressions to elicit it from you regardless. Your world has opened up, and with it a whole host of emotions and exclamations.
It has made nursing both a more intimate and yet difficult experience, for now you are capable of gazing into my eyes, delirious and drunk from the milk, but occasionally you will become so blissfully intoxicated that you pull off the boob and give me an open-mouthed, milk-filled, drooly smile as if to remind me that you’re ever so grateful for the snack. While it is by far the sweetest expression in the world, I inevitably become drenched in my own bodily fluids thanks to the stupid nipple shield detaching from my person.
You have become far more adept at grasping and clinging on to objects, such as mommy’s hair, with those bitty fingers. We still cannot get enough of you joyously shaking your sterling silver baby rattles and kicking in delight. Not only do you enjoy holding on to objects, you love hearing new sounds, and thus we have a spread of rattles so that you may listen to new sounds til your heart’s content. And music! A whole host of musical genres and lullabies are played and sung in your nursery, and you turn into a wet bag of sand when you hear even your mommy’s out of tune voice serenade you. I’ll be sad the day you figure out that I should never engage in song. Meanwhile, your daddy, the pro when it comes to vocal-capabilities, lulls you to sleep every night to the melody of Billy Joel or Elton John. My eyes well up as I hear his voice echoing in the hallway of our darkened house, knowing that he is singing our sweet baby girl to sleep, the way he once sung to me to win my affections.
Oh and your hands, how they bring you such entertainment. Much to mommy’s disappointment, you have yet to figure out how to suck your thumb and prefer instead to shove your entire fist in your mouth and suck viciously, slurping and slobbering and causing such a racket that we can hear you in your crib from across the house, through two closed doors. I blame those damn hands on your inability to sleep more than two hours at a time. They seem to creep up on you, and you eye them suspiciously, and then longingly, like a predator stalking its prey, and slowly bring them to your lips before aggressively shoving them into your mouth. Except, they creep up on you CONSTANTLY and thus disturb your slumber CONSTANTLY. We’ve tried swaddling you to prevent such nighttime distractions, but it only enrages you to be denied access to those precious fingers.
In a similar vein, you STILL hate putting on sleeves, especially at night after bath time. You’re naked and joyous one minute, and then squealing and wailing the moment cotton hits your skin. You have a myraid of bath towels for bath time, and for whatever reason you loath your sheep towel. We’ve experimented. And time and time again, the sheep makes you furious, despite your general contentment during your nightly bathing ritual. Pacifiers are spit across the room with disgust, and while the bottle used to be met with a similar fate, you are gradually coming around.
You have this pathetic baby cough that you tend to do while I’m trying to stick my boob in your mouth, as if to say “Hold up! Let me clear my throat!” (and I can’t help humming DJ Kool and making you dance and flail your arms every time). The cough reminds me of a sickly baby dragon or the kind of cough one would elicit to fain illness and skip school. Something I’m certain I will hear in the future.
Standing with the help of mommy or daddy undoubtedly causes you to open-mouthed smile. You look like such a big girl when you’re supported by your own two feet that it makes me yearn for that innocent infant you once were and yet so proud and joyful to see my darling baby grow. Your Doda fears that you will become bow-legged from such pressure on your baby legs, but my greatest concern is that you’ll become so strong that you’ll be walking by four months, and then my life will be over. You mobile is a hurdle I am not yet ready to confront.
Mostly, I cannot describe the desperate, unconditional wave of love that I feel for you everyday. And it only gets stronger with each living moment. While these three months have blown by at an unprecendented rate, my life before you feels like light years ago. I cannot envision a world without you in it. The most centering, peaceful moment of my day is when I hold you close to my chest and inhale right behind your ear. You smell of delectable baby soap, and powder, and that yummy infant scent that makes me want to gobble you whole. I dread the day you no longer fit securely into the safety of my embrace, and I try to hold my breath and savor each moment I get to cradle you so close, knowing that there will come a time when I won’t have such a daily luxury.
I don’t know how to exist in a world without you, my Bug. And what’s most amazing is, I’ll never have to.
143 Mama
Sunny on her 3-month birthday in her Sip n’See party dress. I fear that it will not fit for any future celebratory occasions, so why not enjoy it just because!
