5 Months.

by Ashley Weeks Cart

Dearest Munchkin Pie,

Oh yes, the fifth month of your life shall go down in the books as the month of the Pig. Oink!

We survived swine flu, and antivirals, and belly aches and explosions of stinky stinky STINKY formula, and even a pathetic little baby dragon cough. While experiencing you sick for the first time scared mommy (not so much your cool-as-a-cucumber-daddy), I was more terrified by the effect that formula had on your bitty, developing digestive system, as did daddy. We were warned that formula was a smelly affair, but truly, it was as if a rotting, roadkill carcass soaked in garbage festering in a New York City subway during the summer had been placed squarely inside your erupting rumpus. Disturbing to say the least. And mommy is more convinced than ever that breastmilk truly is magical, mystical, liquid gold, as she finds no other explanation for why your wee, baby immune system did not wind up big on the pig. Thank the baby Cheez-its.

In other news, your motor development skills are off the chain. Those dexterous fingers of yours nearly ripped a small, hoop of an earring through my fleshy earlobe. This caused much anxiety and screaming, and the removal of any and all earrings from my person until you are at least 20 years of age and can control such ninja-death-grip urges. I don’t need to have TWO double earlobes happening on my already deformed ears, thank you very much.

Tummy time still causes you much rage, and you prefer to have us support you upright, enjoying the world from a vertical stance. Those chunky thighs have become quite strong, and you now pad your feet while standing as THOUGH ATTEMPTING TO TAKE STEPS! As in, propel yourself forward. As in, my life is over. My fear that you shall be an early walker, and skip crawling all together, grows by the day. Don’t you know that YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO READ if you don’t crawl.

Okay, I don’t buy it for a second. But daddy keeps swearing that some huge developmental loss is going to occur if you decide that life on two limbs is better than a life on four. The benefit is that we won’t have to worry about dirty, banged up hands and knees. However, all of our wedding gift knick knacks shall be thrown from their low-shelved placement in our home. They are trembling in fear.

And because of your love of standing, we caved and purchased yet another tacky toy for your pleasure. A ridiculous, rain forest-themed jumping thing-a-ma-bob, that lights up and makes noise and has eight million play stations in primary-colored delight. Our sore arms get about 10 minutes of respite thanks to that sucker a day. And boy is it worth it.

Drinking glasses and bottles of any variety are by far the most exciting, thrilling, joy-inspiring of objects since mommy’s boob and Sir Mortimor the Sheep. Beer bottles, wine glasses, cups filled with OJ. You don’t discriminate. They all cause you to forcefully thrust your arms forward and grab and swat and pull to your lips. You are a wonderful party trick. Isn’t it lovely that we are pimping out your early interest in alcohol for the amusement of our friends? Where is social services on this one?

Moving on.

You have become a champion sleeper. Granted, the only time you show any interest in tummy time is when we lay you in your crib to sleep and you INSTANTLY hurl yourself onto your tummy and blissfully nod off to dreamland.

OMG! SIDS! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!

We routinely try to flip you back on your back, but your resolve is unstoppable, and you truly are your mother’s daughter in that you cannot rest anywhere but on your belly. (Just wait til pregnancy, love. Your tummy-sleeping-world shall be ROCKED. Causing insomnia for at least four mouths, and then you’ll have a child that will ensure further sleep deprivation. It’s totally awesome. Trust me).

But you now know how to sooth yourself to sleep, and although I want to slit my leaky tits ever time I hear Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in 1st (as we now play it on repeat, ALL NIGHT LONG, EVERY NIGHT, to ease you to slumber), it seems to do the trick. A typical night has you sleeping, without interruption, from 8:30pm to 6am. And it is revolutionary.

And your hair is finally long enough that it has gone limp. As in, flaccid. As in, the hipster crowd shall no longer revere you. <sigh> We knew that day was coming.

Your toes became the most thrilling of discoveries this month. You suck on those bad boys like a delectable popsicle and look like a baby monkey or circus performer in the process. It has made diaper changes more of a challenge, but they cause you such delight, I am always hesitant to stop you, thus allowing a flood of urine leakage all over the changing table with some frequency.

Ah, the things we do in the name of cuteness.

Speaking of cuteness. Something that is anything BUT cute is the further development of your shrill shriek that has become much more like a thirteen year old girl’s death scream, or your father’s response to seeing a spider. It is so high pitched that you make Ursa run away in pain and mommy’s ears bleed. It was particularly magical when you chose to entertain a plane of passengers in this capacity on our cross-country flight from DC to LA. Six long hours of Addison’s moment in the spotlight. Waterboarding would have been more appealing. No more flying for quite some time. At least until you can listen to reason.

Whether or not you do in fact listen is an entirely different story.

But despite your intense vocalizations, mommy just cannot get enough of you and the crazy rate of your development and little personality. I spend hours each day just watching you in utter amazement. You are magic. Pure and simple.

The stomping and splashing and playing in your bathtub (that has now been moved into the bathroom to avoid a flood).

The smacking, gurgling, raspberry-filled playing with your mouth as you learn all the wonderful ways to elicit noise and communicate.

Those sweet smiles and sighs that you send my  way upon catching my eye.

The way you reach for my face and cradle it in your baby palms.

The giggles when Ursa licks your face.

Nothing could be more delightful. Slow down, little one, mommy can barely keep up.

Happy 5 months, tacky toys and all!

5 month

143 Mama