7 Months.

by Ashley Weeks Cart

Well, so I had an epic mommy fail (otherwise known as the black hole of thesis death) and did not write a half birthday letter. And, in continuing with that trend, as I am in the throes of my first draft and the holidays are bearing down upon me, and I, GASP!, am hosting my whole family who shall descend in less than a week, this, too, shall be brief.

My dearest Sunny girl,

The arrival of your 7th month of life welcomed the return of mommy’s dear Aunt Flow. As in yes, it is official, I am once again fertile. I thought breastfeeding was supposed to prevent this shit, but alas, you are a solid food eating machine.

Kind of.

Actually, you really are quite picky and opinionated when it comes to your palette. You were down with veggies, until we started you on the sweet, wonderousness that is fruit, and now pears is about the only thing you will let pass through to those two shiny chompers. You are taking after your Auntie Kimmy, who was known as the “fruit bat” until about age 12. You literally clamp your mouth shut, purse your lips, and shake your head violently to prevent the spoon from entering. We get it, no healthy green veggies. I fear what life will be like when you can vocalize this in a linguistic capacity.

And on the chompers note, yep, you’ve got teefers. Two of ’em. So I should probably be grateful that breastfeeding is on the outs, because you’re like your own little attack weapon.

You also have mastered the ability to sit up right, all by yourself, so you clearly are ready to hold down a job, pay your own bills, and support mommy and daddy. You’re one autonomous critter. You are weeks, if not days, away from crawling. You have learned to pull those bitty legs up under you to propel your body forward and grasp whatever non-baby-safe object is within your vision. Screw your rattles, jack-in-the-box, books, and other kid-approved paraphernalia we have strewn about the house. You demand keys, electrical wires, cell phones, TV remotes, KNIVES. Ya know, obviously.

You are sleeping through the night on a consistent basis, and have mastered the ability to happily put yourself to sleep. (I’m totally jinxing this as I type, eh?) Granted, this is not always the case, as when teething or recovering from your 6 months vaccinations and flu shots, you tend to be a tad more needy as in YOU PUT ME DOWN AND I’LL CUT A BITCH WITH THOSE KNIVES OR MY NEW FANGLED TEETH. So we appease you as needed.

Speaking of needy, you’ve developed a little sumfin sumfin known as stranger anxiety slash mommy-separation anxiety, which, while flattering, is less than ideal. Mommy is filled with mass amounts of guilt when you scream cry upon being passed to another warm body.

I mean, I get it. You and I have truly become biffles, as in BFFs, as in your my most favorite companion in the world. We spend all day together: playing outside in the grass with Ursa, or on your playmat where mommy tortures you by placing shiny objects just outside your reach (why am I encouraging crawling, I DO NOT KNOW!), or danSing around the house to Christmas music, or running errands with you slung to my chest, beaming at everyone you pass as if to brag about those porcelin goodies you’ve got stashed inside that smile. I cannot describe how much fun we have together, and how much joy you bring, even while blowing raspberries of unwanted food in my general direction.

I was joking with the sweet, little old lady at the post office (my other biffle this time of year) that my life was almost over because you were on the cusp of crawling, and she shook her head and just gave me that knowing, wise, I’ve-been-where-you-are-and-you-don’t-even-know smile and said, “Oh just wait darling, this is only the beginning. Just wait til the magic really starts.”

And to think there could be more magic than this. I can’t wait.

143 Mama

Eskimo Sunny with her teefers while buying her first Christmas tree!