Oh my Squawky-McSquawkerton,
This month has been filled with momentous occasion after momentous occasion. Namely, the following two events:
A. The loss of the damn nipple shield, the revival of my fair-lady-nips, and the hosing of your face with my bodily fluids (far more frequently than you will ever care to know about).
and B. The discovery of your voice in a truly powerful and relentless capacity. Just yesterday, at the grocery store, you were snuggled in the Sleepy Wrap chirping away, and I could see faces darting out from behind the aisles, Brady Bunch style, to catch a glance of whatever creature was causing such a racket. Just my musical (I use that term loosely) babe. No geese torture. Promise.
This budding voice is just one piece of your ever-developing personality and independence. Each day, you are more and more comfortable playing and being a part of the world all on your own. You sit contentedly in your BUMBO chair, or do tummy time on your surfboard mat, or lie on your back gazing at your mobile without needing Mommy or Daddy right at your side. You now ride silently in your car seat, absorbing the world flashing by your window. Walks in the stroller ease you into a delirious, dazed state of quiet. And just the other morning, we crept into the nursery to check on you because it was far later than your usual waking hour, and there you were, wide-eyed, awake, and smiling. Happily enjoying the morning hour in your princess crib, without making a peep to disturb your sleepy parents.
And my god that smile, you could light up the city of Los Angeles with that joyous expression. You beam at any human face that meets your eye, and Ursa, your crazy, wonderful puppy, brings you unmatched delight. You’ve finally begun to register her presence, and whenever she approaches, you’re entire person lights up and begins quaking with excitement. Ursa meets you with equal enthusiasm (read: slobbery dog kisses) but it doesn’t seem to phase you in the least.
You shove, everything, literally, EVERYTHING, you can get those bitty hands on, into that wee mouth of yours, making cleanliness a challenging task. Rattles, blankies, daddy’s shoulder, Ursa’s tail, mommy’s iPhone, your stuffed animals, the kitchen sink during bathtime- nothing is off limits.
And oh boy, bath time is more of a party than I could have ever imagined for such a tiny person. You do your epic stomp, and splash oceans of water all over the kitchen tiles, which Ursa proceeds to joyfully walk through, leaving muddy pawprints in her wake. You place your hands under the flowing faucet, and slurp happily on your soapy mitts as Daddy suds you up. You become relaxed to such a degree that it is not unusual to see bubbles rise to the surface thanks to your erupting bum. Yeah, you’re a tub tooter.
Your hair is as wild as ever. Like Christian from Project Runway. Flipped up in the most random and ridiculous of states- every 20-something year old hipster on the USC campus has expressed their jealousy. You’re blonder by the day- and sweat buckets if the house ever gets too stuffy- I’m just waiting for your face to turn an epic shade of red- you are your Daddy’s girl.
You are days away from rolling over with purpose, and for now just keel yourself onto your side to gaze at your latest tacky toy, THE BABBLER (thank you Momar, the French teacher, for bringing yet another creepy, albeit educational, addition to the nursery), or to stretch for a fuzzy rattle out of reach. It’s especially amusing when you sleep and are wrapped up as our tight little burrito (limbless when it comes to being able to support yourself), and you still choose to balance precariously on your side. Sometimes you falter, and wind up falling flat on your face, which causes a great ruckus of discontent. Other times, my little glow worm, you squirm and wiggle around the periphery of your crib with such determination despite your constrained appendages, and wind up pressed against the crib bumpers. I’ve seen you snuggle with them contentedly, but also wail and scream with fury when they impede further mobility.
Mostly, you are happy. A happy, sweet, LOUD little baby who makes your parents hearts filled with more joy than even your 1,000 watt smile can emit. Your new, gloriously responsible, babysitter agrees. Which may be a brilliant ploy to win the favor of her new employers, but it works. And we love her for loving you.
Just today, you fell asleep in my arms and rather than scoop you up and place you in your swing (a daily effort to salvage a few moments to myself), I decided to just stay. And sit. And rock. And I savored every second of that hour that you slept. Every beautiful speck of you. Slurping like a sucker fish mid-dream, sighing peacefully, smiling blissfully, cheek pressed against my skin. All the while your anemone fingers clinging to my thumb with such purpose. Just a typical Friday afternoon was utterly transformed by your slumber.
Sitting there in your pajamas & all the time in the world & if I could keep any moment it would be this: watching you & holding my breath with the wonder of it all.
Happy Four Months, little one.