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ourtland The Crawler,

Yes. It’s official. I get to alliterate to the heavens.

You are crawling. In fact, your movements are so pronounced and deliberate you remind me of a crawling baby robot. I half expect you to morph into one of those battery-charged Gogo my Walkin’ Pups that were all the rage in the early 90s. Each arm raise and knee pull are mechanical in nature. You’re this zombie crawler. Plodding steadily forward. Slow. Deliberate. Seeking out electrical wires. Fire place tools. Tiny, plastic PlayMobile guys. Your primary colored, choke-proof toys are merely a road block to your quest for all of the shiny hazards hiding in every nook of the house.

Between that and the house purchase, it’s been a momentous month. Which very well explains why this letter is nearly a week late in its composition. Between trying to move to Vermont and deterring you from jamming colored pencils down your throat, I’ve got my hands full. But with every passing day, you change more and more, so I’ve forced myself to sit down and write for fear that I’ll have forgotten these past four weeks if I let another moment go by. Just yesterday you pulled up. As in, to standing. As in, say WHAT?!? And while that’s technically a part of Month 9, I can’t help but mention it as both your father and I were rendered speechless and stunned. Do you know what a giant pain in the butt it is to lower your damn crib mattress?

You are coming into your own personality. Your face is changing into that of a baby girl, and not just my gender neutral infant. Your gums have sprouted two pearly whites. You “doh doh doh” and “ma ma ma” and “blah blah blah” as though you could rival the von Trapps and make Julie Andrews proud. You have a deep, guttural growl that you share with some regularity. Auntie Kimmy compared it to Simba’s attempts at roaring in The Lion King. An appropriate metaphor for this new linguistic adventure. While you may sound like a lion cub, you behave like your father’s favorite mammal. You’ve taken to violently wiggling your torso back and forth and back and forth while supported in a standing position. Sunny used to do a bit of wiggling side to side, but never with such drama and never like that of a dolphin. Perhaps it is that you are part Mermaid. After all, you so enjoyed your time floating in Ghillie and Ranger’s pool. And when you aren’t playing transformer baby, you rest from crawling slung on one side, arm resting on your hip like a cherubic Venus de Milo or Ariel perched atop her rock. Regardless of what creature or persona you are channeling, your daddy and I are delighting in experiencing all of these little quirks and developments that are so specific to you, my Aquatic Robot of the Sahara.

And best of all, you still think that I’m the most awesome person on Planet Earth. You’ve reached the point where you now collapse into hysterics as soon as I enter a room to ensure that I come and scoop you into my arms. And while I may be creating a spoiled little monster by buckling to these cries, you’re the sweetest, snuggliest, most endearing little monster I know. Once in my embrace, I feel your body relax and melt into my shoulders like a wet bag of sand.

We fit. Like a puzzle piece. Mother and child. And I don’t care how cliche that sounds, it is the truth. It’s as though my shoulder was made to house the nestle of your head. As though the fold of my neck was intended to absorb every coo and babble. As though our left cheeks were built to connect and freeze moments in time with every hug and embrace. Because despite all the chaos and life-altering changes of the past four weeks, you have the unmatched power to stop time in its tracks and tether me to the Earth with the kind of perspective and quiet I crave more than ever. Every time the puzzle pieces snap into place, I’m put back together. Made whole by the needs of my child.

Happy 8 months, Courtland. Thank you for being the piece that I didn’t even know was missing.

143 Mama