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Dearest Addison Weeks,

Hi.

How are you?

What’s that you say?

It’s your birthday? You’re 3 years old today? You’re having a party with balloons and chocolate cake and you’re going to eat pasta with just sauce for your birthday dinner? And Momar and Doda and Kimmy are coming? And we’re going to sing to you? And, yes, you have mentioned that you’re having a party. Oh, yes, balloons, of course they’ll be balloons. And bessert. Yes, lots and lots of bessert will be consumed.

How could I possibly forget any of these essential details as they’ve been the running narrative ever since you bore witness to my birthday celebrations one month ago. You have been looking forward to this day with much enthusiasm and longing. Everyday we’ve had to remind you that, no, today is not yet your birthday. But this morning, oh boy, your look of delight and pure pleasure rivaled that of any joyous cartoon’s expression when you trotted into our room and Daddy and I proclaimed, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Daddy and I snuggled you into our arms and we snapped silly pictures and I lay there thinking, How is it possible that she is three? How is this beautiful, smart, funny little girl mine? How did we ever get so lucky?

You are such a bright spot in our lives. Your sister thinks that you’re the cat’s meow, which is fitting given that when you play pretend, 9 times out of 10 you impersonate a kitty cat. It’s as though you sense your parents aversion to felines, and are trying to change our minds with your adorable imitations of this potential addition to our dependents.

Fat chance, kid. Mama’s getting her baby chicks next month. There’s no room for chicken poaching felines in our midst.

Oh, but the chickens. You are intrigued by the prospect of chicken ownership given your love of the film Chicken Run. You and I have decided that we will name our chicks after the characters in said movie. Babs. Mac. Ginger. Bunty. Edwina. Rocky.

Although, admittedly, we’re not getting a rooster. Because they are almost as terrifying as you find ants, and flies, and bees. You don’t discriminate. If it’s creepy crawly, you want nothing to do with it. Since moving to the farm we’ve been inundated with creepy wildlife and often you’ll sit atop the slide of your new swing set demanding that Daddy or I remove the offending bug from your sliding trajectory. Even if it’s a ladybug. No amount of cajoling will convince you to head on down that slide and knock the bug from your path. I think you’d take up residence in your swing set were we not to clear the runway for you. But we’re trying to show you that most bugs are actually quite harmless and that you better get used to ‘em because, um, we live on a freaking farm now. Weird wildlife is part of the package.

Yes, even that beetle the size of your sister’s head that greeted us the other morning for breakfast in the kitchen. Even him. We must learn to not panic and hide on top of the kitchen table the next time Sir Beetle comes to visit.

While we can tell that three is going to be an unbelievably challenging age as you are more defiant and stubborn and free-willed than ever before, it also is going to be filled with such thoughtfulness and make believe. Watching you engage with the world is a truly magical experience. If only we could hold on to our preschool lens for life. The world would be a far simpler, more beautiful place. We’d take time in the evening to listen to the frogs outside our window. We would revel in the simplicity and joy of a balloon or a swing or our bare feet in a cold stream. We’d dance like no one’s watching, even in the middle of the grocery store. We’d ask why. We’d be curious about the world around us. We’d sit around the dinner table as a family and talk about our day. We’d even ask the dogs how they spent their day. We’d turn old boxes into castles and pillows into clouds. Our greatest concern would be what bows to put in our pigtails and what crayons to pack in our backpack. We’d spend our days drawing and reading and swinging and snuggling and eating Gold Fish and splashing in a nightly bath. We’d say I love you, freely, all the time. Whether it be to our blanket or our doggie or our favorite stuffed animal or our party shoes or our Mommy, Daddy and little sister.

There are moments when, out of the blue, you’ll look at me with such sincerity and declare, “Mommy, I love.” It’s as though you’ve stopped time in its tracks to process the gravity of such an emotion and understand the weight and significance of those words. Above anything else your Daddy and I teach you, we hope that you will hold on to this ability to tell those you love how you feel, often and unabashedly. Because my dear girl, we love you. Oh we love you so much that the pit of my stomach aches, so tightly bundled with love am I for you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never be able to tell you enough in my lifetime, but I’m sure going to try.

I love you, my Sunny girl.

Happy 3rd Birthday!

143 Mama

aki Baby,

Whenever I write or say your name, I can’t resist the urge to bust out into a chorus of, “Kak kak kak kak! Kak kak kak kicky Kaks! Kak kak kak Kaki Kaki kicky Kaki girl! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!” I sing this repeatedly to you, with the gusto and fanfare of midwestern high school marching band. The most joyous development this month has been that you now respond to this ridiculous ditty with comparable enthusiasm. You smile and wiggle and clap your hands. Showing much pleasure and rhythmic savvy, if I do say so myself. I cannot get enough of the hand clapping. Your ability to mimic this simple physical gesture is positively magnificent and has made your engagement in Music Class and with your mommy’s absurd array of musical ditties all the more enjoyable.

But your physical skill merely begins with the hand clapping. You maneuver around the house with the speed and agility of Dash (from The Incredibles, duh!) except your sense of boundaries and safety is more on par with Jack Jack. I feel as though you’re on the brink of going up in flames at any moment.

Baby on fire, not good. Not good!

Daddy and I are poor Jack Jack’s helpless babysitter, watching chaos unfold before our eyes as you overturn the dog’s water bowl for the 8,000th time, and hurl every item from the recycling bin across the kitchen floor before pulling up, to standing, GASP!, and yanking the table cloth out from under our dinner with the skill of an inebriated magician. We are powerless to stop it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true, but if we DO stop it, we must face the wrath of your “Death Scream.” A very specific tenor of your shrieks that you unleash when you are most displeased and wish to shatter glass across the state of Vermont and into Berkshire County.

Just this month you’ve learned to couple your Death Scream with the “Body Hurl,” which is just as it sounds, you hurling yourself backwards out of the arms in which you are being held, to convey ultimate fury and unhappiness.

It’s quite effective. Terrifying. But effective.

Ah, my dear, with you, there is never a dull moment. Have I mentioned your sneeze? I cannot possibly forget to mention your sneeze. You see, most people approach the sneeze with the timing of say a 16th note, perhaps an 8th if it is of the heartier, more dramatic variety. Yours? It’s a whole note. Nay, one of those long, drawn out notes where the conductor holds her arms out like Christ at the cross, dragging every last sound from the orchestra before her.  That, my dear, is your sneeze, plus an extra 10 seconds. And it’s not the peak or climax of the sneeze that you highlight, but the denouement. The “ooooo” part of the Ahchoo. Don’t you worry, I’ve called Guinness and informed them that we have a new skill for their record books. You’re an endurance sneezer. God bless you.

You are constantly on the move. Busy and joyous and literally humming and bubbling over with curiosity and a cavalier sense of adventure. Our relationship has changed, as you no longer require my arms for mobility or entertainment. And you eat solid food by the bowl full – I’m talking serving bowl sized. We have no idea where you stash it away, but you are a ravenous eater. A true gourmand. Enthusiastic to sample whatever we have to offer. You are a chow hound and no longer need to nurse with much frequency as you prefer to consume your calories in the form of mushed fruits and veggies and cereal.

You have gained a sense of autonomy this month that has marked a papable shift. You are a little less dependent. A little less mine. And it makes my heart hurt, trying to make sense of the complexity of this transition.

I’m currently reading a book called Making Babies: Stumbling Into Motherhood by Anne Enright and she says it best when she describes her child learning to crawl, “It is the beginning of the end of a romance between a woman who has forgotten who she is and a child who does not yet know.”

As you become more independent, as you consume more solid food, as you play autonomously, as you teach your limbs to bend and grasp and move and perform, I gain a bit more of myself back. Not to say that it was lost, but it was put on hold during a time when I was your only source of nourishment and felt an all-consuming protectiveness and responsibility to your every breath.

While I relish the release of this pressure, I am sad to say goodbye to a period that marks a very unique and special relationship and intimacy between mother and child.

Fortunately, I still have glimpses of those moments when you nurse. In fact, my favorite times of the day are when we are curled up together nursing. This happens once in the middle of the night, (Editor’s Note: Now there’s an area where I could stand for you to take that developmental leap and just go ahead and sleep right through until dawn. Just a gentle suggestion), then again first thing in the morning, before I drag myself from bed to start the day, and then again right when I come home from work and then finally, right before I lay you down for bed. Those four periods I cherish. They are my excuse to retreat to my bedroom, away from the noise, and the boxes waiting to be unpacked, and the responsibility, and the dirty dishes, and the emails, and curl up, just you and me. You are most certainly busier than ever while nursing, performing impressive yoga moves while remaining latched to my person or clawing at every mole or bump on my skin, but sometimes, you pause just long enough to lock eyes with me, and I witness the side of your mouth curving into a milk stained smile, and oh, my love. If only I could bottle that kind of serenity.

I love you, my darling 9 month old.

143 Mama

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

even months. How is that even possible, Courtland?

And yet, here you are, on the brink of crawling. Rolling, and flopping, and dragging your little body from one end of the room to the other. Contentedly playing and cooing and chewing on a sea of toys coating the carpet. You’ve become so comfortable being alone and unattended. I’m not sure how this happened, given how particular you were for the first half year of your life, but something shifted this month. We can plop you on the floor and you’ll joyously entertain yourself. Moving from one toy to the next, wildly squawking and causing quite the ruckus. Hanna looms over you, licking your face and watching your every move if Daddy or I leave the room to fold laundry or grab a snack for your sister. She’s your Nana Dog, and finds you as delicious as you find our spread of wooden mixing spoons that so entice you during dinner time.

And on that note, meals are now a proper family affair. You sit in the highchair like quite the big girl, drooling and teething and banging on kitchen utensils. Sunny sits at her table which we’ve pulled next to the dining room table. And there we are. A family of four. Eating. Talking about our days. While we don’t yet understand your contributions, they are always enthusiastic and expressed with much fanfare.

And here is where I take a moment to acknowledge that Daddy and I make very loud babies. You and Sunny, while different is so very many ways, share the same high pitched, abrasive screech and Scuttle-like squawk. I wrote about it here and here and here and this is by far Auntie Kimmy’s favorite video documenting this voice with your sister. You are no exception. After being around your new friend Alison, I was struck by how different you sounded from her and thus how notably similar your pitch and tenor is to your sister’s. I’ll take this as a sign that you all have inherited my abrasively loud voice. It’s genetic! The Voice That Roared has been passed on! LUCKY DADDY!

Now that you’ve surpassed the mid-year marker, you are generally more at ease and easy going. You’re content to babble and stomp in your Pack n’Play whether it’s before you’re ready for sleep at bedtime, or when you first awake in the morning. While you still wake at least once per night to nurse, you are always willing to be carted back to your bed and put to sleep for a few more precious hours. In fact, once this week you slept for over 12 hours straight. While my boobs could have crushed stone they were so engorged by this change of schedule, Daddy and I delighted in the potential for a life of uninterrupted sleep. We can tell you’re going to get there, and that is reassuring. I won’t have these big bags under my eyes forever! HURRAY!

I’ve noticed that this month you are far more cautious of strangers. While you once smiled wildly and unabashedly at every passing face, you now eye new people with reservation and caution. You make them work for those smiles – which are still as wide and bright as ever when finally offered. The smiles are so wide in fact that they cause your face to mold into a perfect little square – your cheeks scrunched up so high that your chin tucks up and under and your face takes the form of that right angled geometry.

Unfortunately, with this new stranger danger mindset, you are very unwilling to let new people hold you, and even protest when handed over to your beloved babysitter. Of course, as soon as Daddy or I leave the room, you are happy and delightful. You just want your voice heard. These days you are far more apt to voice your opinion about who lays hands on you than ever before.

And I suppose that’s all a part of growing up. While you are easier and more fun in some ways, you’ve become more challenging in others. And that’s just as it should be. Momar explained that as your children grow, it gets better and better. More and more complicated and complex, of course. But the rewards become much greater, thus the complexities worth the struggle.

And so I will revel in this time where I am still your most favorite face in The Universe. I will enjoy that my touch, my hands, my embrace is enough to melt away the tears and make everything right in your little world. And I hope that, while it will not always be so easy, I will always be that source of comfort. That I will always be your safe harbor. Because if I could, my daughter, I would ensure that your face were always in the shape of that delightful little square.

Happy 7 Months, baby.

143 Mama

y Whaley cute girl,

How on Earth are you a half year old? Six whole months? 26 weeks? 182 days? I am struggling to wrap my head around this fact. And yet everything about you screams of a person who has been in the world such a lengthy period of time.

The way that you’re on the brink of sitting up without any assistance. Although, admittedly, you collapse with great fanfare when your bobbley baby head throws off your center of gravity. I have a feeling that in 30 days time, however, you’ll have mastered control of this disproportionate appendage.

And then there’s the way that you cry out when I leave the room or Daddy releases you from his arms and it’s clear that you understand that you are suddenly without us and want to make us return. It’s a cry of such awareness that of course you have six months under your belt!

Or the way that you flap your arms dramatically by your side like an angry baby bird (did I just call you an Angry Bird? I did indeed) and then claw and clutch my shirt or my skin or my hair, or really anything within your reach, while nursing. And may I take this opportunity to state that you have quite the mighty grip for someone of only 16 lbs. I have bright red marks on my skin from your baby hands. I don’t remember this being quite as extreme an issue when your big sister was a nursling, and yet I find myself constantly fending off your mighty paws and long, lovely fingers in the name of irritation-free skin. Apparently, you have a thing for Wolverine. I admit that you are not alone in your love of Hugh Jackman. In fact, Mommy will share the story of her and Momar’s run in with that beautiful man later in your life. But could we try not to emulate his X-Men character quite so accurately? Thank you.

This month we put solid food on hold as between traveling to New Orleans and then a marathon series of colds and thus mucus and thus epic baby vomit (not just spit up) coming through the house, we shelved the cereal and are going to try to reintroduce solids now that your mighty smoker’s cough is subsiding. I feel like you have had a faucet for a nose ever since you arrived and I’m sorry that that is the price you pay for having a preschool attending sibling. I keep trying to remember that this will give you a mighty immune system for when you begin school, but when I’m siphoning a bulb’s worth of boogers from your nose to the harmonies of your screams and wails of misery, it can be tough to keep the bigger picture in sight. But we’ll both be grateful. One day.

You’re still a fitful sleeper, although since I’ve chosen to go totally and completely caffeine free, the restlessness has improved. Unfortunately, I don’t know which form of sluggishness is worse – that of a caffeinated mama awoken every 2 hours by her fitful babe, or that of a sleep-deprived mama going through caffeine withdrawals. Because while your sleeping has improved, you still wake at least once in the middle of the night and require a lengthy nurse and some comforting before you go back to sleep. I do hope that with improved health and some solid foods this 1am nurse will disappear, but until then, I’ll be channeling the characters from The Walking Dead. Yeah, the zombies. Your big sister keeps making comments on how “crimpy” (i.e. greasy and uncombed) my hair is, but you don’t seem to notice. As long as the boob produces milk, you’ll love me most in the whole wide universe, even if I’m mimicking the undead.

And that is what I want to talk about most. I am, undoubtedly, your most favorite person in the world. And I’m not going to for a second pretend that I am not loving and soaking in every moment of that. It has become glaringly apparent just how much you adore me. And I realize that I have a certain leaky appendage (okay, two) that account for this adoration, but I’ll take it. I now walk into a room and you literally quake with delight. Your entire face explodes in a gum-filled grin and you make your excited “nurse noise” (a term we coined with your sister because she made a similar “ah ah ah” sound when she wanted to nurse) but you do it to just express your joy at seeing me. You could have a full belly of milk, and I might depart the room for 5 minutes and return to find you squirming and thrusting and shoving and nurse noising yourself toward my person. You lunge out of your babysitter’s arms or roll dramatically on the floor toward me whenever I enter, and it never ceases to make me feel like a total rock star. “Crimpy” hair, caffeine-withdrawals, puffy eyes, and all.

And while I certainly receive the brunt of your affections and attention, you continue to hold the title for the most smiley baby I have ever encountered. Strangers comment constantly on the ease with which they elicit smiles from your drooly lips. You daddy mentioned the other day that he almost takes for granted your constant stream of grins and giggles and utter expressions of happiness. He always finds himself horribly disappointed when the mere passing of eyes does not cause the room to expand from the girth of your smile. It’s so rare that you NOT smile, that we’re always taken aback when it happens, when we actually have to put in some work for the grins.

The other day, you lay on your changing table, bare bummies in the breeze (as is a frequent state of affairs for all the Cart women) and I stood over you, giggling and cooing and kissing and restraining myself from gobbling you whole by the light of the afternoon sun. You in turn sighed and laughed. You locked eyes. You grabbed my hands.  You put out into the world only goodness and sweetness and that amazing baby innocence that cripples me with much needed perspective and peace. Your daddy emerged in the middle of our giggle fest and said, “I feel so lucky to have just witnessed that.”

I want you to know that that is how you make me feel all the time.

Happy 6 months, baby girl.

143 Mama

aki baby,

My adorable 5 month old. The 5 month old who sits up, eats solid foods, rolls over, and wears size 9-12 month clothing… so really, not a 5 month old at all.

SLOW DOWN, KID. I’m struggling to keep up. To store it away in my memory bank to recall the sense of awe and pride I have in watching you turn into a completely awesome and wondrous little person.

Admittedly, it may feel like such a challenge in part because your father and I are still stumbling around in a sleep-deprived haze, so it’s tough enough to keep up with the day-to-day, let alone the astounding rate with which you have hurdled over each developmental milestone. But my, sleep is such a very boring topic, isn’t it? Like discussing the weather or a diet. Topics that seep into everyday conversation but truly are of little interest to the receiving party. I’ll leave it at this. You have good days. You have bad days. Days where your Daddy and I get a taste of what life might be like functioning with a fully charged battery. And days when we light bags of oatmeal on fire.

Such is life with a baby.

As long as you keep offering those generous smiles of delight when you see my face, I’ll keep sopping up the spit up and wiping your bum. No matter the hour.

And let me just say that now that you are an adept consumer of solid food both the bum wiping and spit up sopping have gotten far more interesting. And colorful.

And yes, you are a wee bit young to have solids like apple sauce and cereal and butternut squash enter your baby digestive system, but it’s been clear from month 3 that food fascinated you. You sit in your Bumbo, atop the kitchen table, while the rest of us consume our daily meals, all the while smacking and drooling and mimicking our mouth movements. I mentioned this to your pediatrician and she said that there was no harm in offering some cereal anytime after month 4. If you didn’t like it or weren’t interested, you’d let us know.

And given your siren-like wails whenever we attempt to feed you from a bottle, we knew what we might be in for.

We prepared for the screaming the first time we shoved a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth, and it never came. Instead you licked your lips and thrust your mouth at the spoon again and again, demanding that your Daddy keep up a very rigorous scooping pace to accommodate your love of this feeding routine. We just can’t seem to shovel fast enough. Your new babysitter (who, I might add, you have taken to like a champ, and who, in return, seems quite taken with you) also commented on the desperate joy you exhibit while eating. You coo and flap your arms and begin fussing the moment the spoon is removed from your mouth until the moment it reenters, refilled with the mushy gushy stuff you so adore.

As utilized very clearly while you eat, you are now quite vocal and skilled at expressing your desires through a series of squeaks and squawks and coos. In this regard, you are much like your sister. The sound of your screeches and blah blah blahs and spit-filled raspberries and oral experimentations remind me very much of Sunny at this age. I assumed that that was a standard part of this developmental stage, but a friend who came out to LA and helped with Addison around month 5, and who babysat you in late December while your Daddy and I attended a wedding, commented on how uniquely “Cart” those noises and sounds were.

I love that.

Even when it’s demanding my attention at 4 o’clock in the morning.

Mostly, I adore that this month you’ve taken to reaching out your baby hands to cradle my face. I suppose that at this stage,you reach out your hands to hold everything, and then dramatically shove whatever that “thing” is into your mouth because we’re fully embedded in the oral stage. But when it is my face that you are reaching for, I melt inside. You’ll hold both sides of my cheeks and look into my eyes and let loose the wildest and drooliest of smiles. It’s unabashed. And so genuine and pure in its delivery. Then, violently, you’ll bury your head into my neck and curl your legs and arms into your chest as though you are trying propel your little body inside of me. I love holding you in that moment. Your face pressed against the edge of my neck, your body tucked against my clavicle. Feeling your need for me.

Because, sweetheart, I promise, I need you so much more than you’ll ever need me.

Happy 5 months, baby.

143 Mama

haley Baby,

As I write this, you are peacefully napping, which is horribly ironic as this month shall go down as the slow decline into sleeplessness. The past two weeks have found me and your daddy stumbling around the house, downing shots of espresso by the gallon, and sleeping in separate bedrooms to try and overcome this severe sleep regression. We’re in survival mode. Daddy and I alternate nights with you so that on any given evening at least one of us gets more than two hours of consecutive sleep.

It’s not only me and your Daddy that I worry about in this scenario. I’m concerned that you are no longer sleeping more than an hour or two in a row. That most certainly can’t be good for your development, and yet, we haven’t figured out the solution to your fitful sleep habits. You see, you’re now far too big for your bassinet. I went back and realized that we had moved your sister into the crib and her own bedroom at 10 weeks, and here you are, four months old, and we haven’t done so with you for any number of reasons. 1. We can’t risk you waking up your sister every hour with your wails of discomfort and fury, as it’s difficult enough at 3am to have one grumpy kid on our hands. And 2., a part of me isn’t ready to admit that you are so grown up.

Your Momar told me that it’d be like this. That with the first child, you look forward to every milestone and next step. But with the second, you mourn each new development as it is a tangible sign of the time that you now know from experience is so very fleeting and precious. To admit that you are grown up enough for the crib would be to admit that you are no longer my newborn. I know that you are not, and yet, it tears me up inside because I don’t know if I will ever mother another new life. I don’t know if this infancy is my last.

Your Mama, Ms. Mellow Dramatic.

I go back to work on Monday, and that milestone hurts the most. Not the act of returning to work so much as the act of saying goodbye to this unbelievably special time that we have shared. The past four months have been a period of hibernation and bonding. Of growth. Of building. We are now a family of four. And that is a truly incredible thing.

Thank you for that.

And while my Twitter stream is now just a series of midnight rants regarding your sleep habits and my lack thereof, I realize that in a year’s time, I’ll miss those wild smiles of delight at four in the morning. The way you cling to my fingers and shirt. The way you kick and stomp and do crunches – yes crunches! I swear by six months you’ll have a six pack – by my side in the wee hours of the morning, as you learn how to instruct those limbs to bend at your will.

There are times when you’re in your bouncer or chewing on your feet (a new and exciting discovery just this week) that you remind me so very much of your Big Sister. And yet, as you drool a lake and feverishly suck your fingers, or scream if you are not held just so, or smile unabashedly at every passing face, or squawk and coo in intonations new to my ear, that I note the distinct differences between you two. You are your own little person. And we adore you so very much. Even in the middle of the night. On only 45 minutes of sleep.

How could we not? You are our beautiful second born, and it’d be boring if we had the same experience as we’d had with your sister. Bring it on, kiddo. Your Daddy and I are ready for whatever you throw our way.

But take it slowly, okay? I’m trying to soak up each of these moments so I can recall the peace they bring for the rest of my life.

Happy 4 Months.

143 Mama

y darling Addison Weeks,
y two and a half year old,
y pre-schooler,

I thought that I wouldn’t write you a letter like this until your third birthday. But I’ve been reflecting on the past six months since I wrote this, and it is clear that I need to record all of the amazing developments and milestones you’ve hit in just a half year’s time.

You’re an entirely different kid than the one I wrote to back in May. You are a potty-trained, preschool-bound Big Sister. Those are all fairly epic events for a person of only 30 months of life. Brava, you!

Most notably, you are a completely verbal and communicative little person. You know how to express feelings. And opinions. And you’re even learning the art of lying to try to get your way. Like, yesterday, when you told me that you took off your tights and put them in your laundry hamper because there was pee on them. Even though the tights were bone dry and we all know that it’s just because you much prefer life in bare feet. Also, without pants.

I’m to blame for that preference. Le sigh.

You are my best friend and constant companion. You keep me company during the hourly nurse sessions with your sister. We go on walks and talk about the day. We ride in the car discussing what we should eat for dinner. I now understand my isolation and loneliness with your infancy much clearer, as I see the difference it makes to have another person by my side as I manage the day-to-day demands of a baby. Thank you for being such an enthusiastic and adorable bestie.

Although, I recognize that adjusting to life with baby sister hasn’t always been easy on our relationship. While you are bursting with energy and curiosity, you’ve been forced into a time in our household that often demands quiet, and patience, and stillness. That’s like telling Ursa not to love her tennis ball. It ain’t gonna happen.

And this is why you’ll be starting preschool after Thanksgiving. Just three times a week to give you some time with kids your age, in a space that is built to allow you to explore and play and take full advantage of your creative and curious mind and energetic spirit. This will be better for both of us, as our time together can be less filled with No’s and Wait’s and Hold on’s. We’ve also started going to gymnastics classes twice a week, and boy do you delight in somersaulting and jumping and racing around just being a two and a half year old. Your joy is infectious and I wish I could approach such activities like flushing a toilet with the same awe and spirit that you bring to what is seemingly so mundane.

You still love music. And your books. And now, “wideos” – your word for videos and the movies we now let you watch to help me find the time to feed your sister and keep you entertained and in one place. We first introduced you to the Wallace & Gromit series, and I’ve watched each of those films at least a hundred times. Now we’re onto Nemo, and despite urgings to test the waters of other Pixar films, you are holding fast to your love of Nemo. Today you told me that you think Dory loves you. And that that was pretty great.

I agree. On all fronts.

It’s unexpected and magical thought processes such as this that fill my daily life of diapers and laundry and bodily fluids with joy. There are certain phrases that you say that I have no intention of ever correcting because they are far too sweet in their current form to ever change.

Like when you are enjoying an activity and I suggest that we do something else, you respond, “No, I just want to sit for a little bit while, okay?”

Or when your food is hot, you demand that we “blow it up!” to cool it off.

Or when we sit you on your potty and you politely ask, “Please have my own privacy, please.”

I love having clearer insight into how you see the world. That has been the biggest shift in this past half year. I suddenly have a window into how you are experiencing life around you. And I am particularly impressed and filled with pride by how gracefully and sweetly you’ve adjusted to being a Big Sister. You are the reason she giggled for the first time, because she agrees that you are the most awesome, entertaining person in the household. You’re so sweet with her. And assure her that she’s okay when she cries. Or shake toys for her to keep her entertained while I run to the bathroom. You haven’t shown any anger or resentment toward her, or me, or your daddy. And you’ve taken to caring for your own baby doll through mimicking the behavior you see from me and Daddy with Courtland. That you are so aware and sensitive is an overwhelmingly touching thing to witness as a parent.

The other day I found you sitting in the rocking chair, Boppie around your waist, baby doll in your lap with a blanket draped over her, your shirt lifted, “breastfeeding.” Granted, you had Baby nursing from your belly button via the nipple shield that I no longer use to feed your sister, but the effort was admirable. And I realize that the nipple shield is a confusing phenomenon. It seems that you think of it like a bottle, as though it has a magical power to elicit breast milk from its use, so that anyone is capable of breastfeeding. While we’ve had many productive conversations about breastfeeding and biology as a greater topic, it’s understandable that it isn’t all quite clear. In fact, I’d be concerned if it were. Admittedly, I do love that you call penises, “peanuts.” It never gets old hearing you proclaim proudly, “Daddy has a peanut!”

Your father is less pleased. Although he admits that objectively it is quite endearing.

The past few days have found me feeling rather blue. It’s a combination of things: The grey skies. The dwindling daylight hours. Events in our community. Events in the world. Tough, complex personal relationships and dynamics. Mix those all together and I feel off. There’s a constant nauseous pit in my stomach. I’m filled with a sadness that I can’t shake. But then you tell me that you love me. And ask me to hold your hand so that we can dance together in the living room. And the clouds part.

You’re better than any light therapy I’ve ever tried.

You and your sister give me perspective. And purpose. And you fill even my gloomy days with a bit of sunshine. And I don’t know how to thank you for that, so I won’t try. Instead I’ll get up off my sorry butt and shake it so you can see what your Mama gave you.

I love you, Sunny.

143 Mama

ourtland,

You sweet, drooly thing, you. Today you are 3 months old. You do realize that Mommy didn’t start writing these birthday letters for Addison until her 3 month birthday. This means that, assuming I’m able to keep up this monthly writing, you will ultimately have two more birthday letters than your big sister. Treasure this, as I know many second borns complain that they do not receive the same level of attention and documentation of their lives as their eldest sibling. Here’s something you can cling to when you realize that Mommy hasn’t created five scrap books in your honor the way I was able to do with Sunny.

I haven’t gone back and read the letter that I wrote to your sister on her 3 Month birthday*, as I don’t want it to influence or inspire what I’m about to record about your first three months of life. It’ll be very interesting to see the differences in those letters, the things that jumped out to me about your sister at this stage versus the things that are most notable about you.

And a notable little baby you are, my dear. I probably shouldn’t use the term “little” to describe you, as your growth is off the charts and your feet are so long and ski-like that you have to wear 12-month footsies in order to accommodate those toes.The fact that you are now wearing 9-12 month clothing is outrageous, and I wonder who will wind up being the taller sister. Undoubtedly you both will out-height Mama.

While I called your sister a Mohawk baby, you, truly, have earned that title. I realize now that while your sister had more hair, it was less a Mohawk and more a series of spikes like that of a Stegosaurus. You have a proper and ever-growing ‘hawk. And I will weep with dismay the day it falls. It is just priceless, and as always, the ultimate conversation starter.

You continue to be the messiest, drooliest, slimiest, spit-uppy infant. Burp cloths are strewn all around the house because at any moment you might erupt. No one is safe. The dogs. The floors. The couch. My hair. We’ve all been sufficiently coated in regurgitated milk, and I’m becoming quite accustomed to changing my clothing on account of reverse peristalsis at least three times a day.

Oh and the drool. I keep thinking that you might be an early teether, ya know, to explain the bath tub’s worth of drool that you leak on a daily basis. But there are no signs of teeth. You are just a baby faucet.

You are very particular about how you like to be held. And Daddy and I are on the brink of suffering from Carpal Tunnel due to this particularity. You do not want to be cradled. Or held up facing our chest. You must be carried facing outward, one of our arms slung across your body, our hand supporting you by way of your diaper. My ganglion cysts have never been so pronounced, but it’s an easy excuse in pilates class to get out of performing that hideous plank move. Sure, I could blame being horrendously out of shape, but it’s less of a blow to my ego to point to my sore wrists.

You are more and more active. You stomp and kick and fail your arms with such gusto. It all seems very violent and angry, and is typically performed with a very serious and stern face. I understand. It must take much concentration to get all those limbs moving together. Furious concentration. It has made breastfeeding more of a delicate dance, as your arms flail and claw at the air, my chest, my shirt, my hair. And the world is such an exciting and fascinating place, that it MUST BE LOOKED AT! And sometimes you try to take the nipple with you while you look, and well, just ow. Please refrain from doing that. That nipple is attached to me, ya know.

And while the world around you continues to amaze, your hands and fingers have become the most delightful and engaging of objects. Oh you love to clench those hands together and joyously shove that ball of fingers into your mouth. You slurp and drool and coo and slobber. And it sounds a bit like I’m describing a St. Bernard instead of a human infant. But when you are entertained by your hands, the drool production doubles.

I cannot get enough of that drool-stained grin.

Speaking of your grin, you continue to beam with absolute enthusiasm. Particularly when we change your diaper and your bare bummie hits the breeze. We call it the Diaper Smile. Clever, we know. Your sister shared this propensity. Let’s hope that you both get your love of public nudity out of your systems now. Otherwise you’ll be streaking Lombard Street like your Mama at age 19, and we’d prefer to not have to bail you out of jail.

We are on the verge of some serious giggles, and Daddy and I continue to overwhelm you and make the most absurd and ridiculous of faces to try to elicit them further. I realize that we may be terrifying you into giggle-silence. But one day we’ll sort out the best way to bring forth your laughter. Sadly, Hanna has destroyed Throny – his lips were just so chewably delectable.

Most notably, you are happy to sit in your Bumbo and watch your sister eat her lunch. Or lie on your play mat having conversations with your plush bugs while I take Addison to the potty. Or stomp and kick on the changing table while I read her bedtime stories. As the second child, you have been forced to become far more independent than your sister ever was at this stage. She too is having to learn this skill now that you’ve arrived, but much later in her life. Sometimes I am filled with guilt about this state of affairs. Sad that you don’t get two years of undivided attention like your sister did. But then I realize that all of this is a part of who you will become: independent, strong, self-sufficient. I see all those things in you already. And I know that they will serve you well.

Sometimes we lock eyes and a smile spreads across your face in recognition.  I half expect you to exclaim, “Hey! You’re the boob lady. I like you!”

And you know what? I like you, too. A whole heck of a lot.

I only wish that you could look at me with that kind of naive, innocent perfection forever. Alas, one day I’ll do something that will chip away at the veneer. But I promise you this. To me, you will always be perfect.

143 Mama

*Note: I just went and read the letter that I wrote to Addison on her 3 month birthday. The similarities are striking – perhaps not surprising – but definitely pronounced. Apparently there are some things about these babes that are quite consistent.

Oh my little Whaley girl,

I am joyously ringing in your 2nd month birthday, as the past two nights have found you sleeping nine hours. In a row. Uninterrupted. As in, no wails of discontent serving as an early morning alarm clock. As in, no bleary, midnight nurse sessions. As in, no fumbling in the dark to try and change a diaper as my head swims drowsily into consciousness. As in, one day, when your sister stops waking up at 4:30 in the morning because she’s “scared of the dark,” your father and I might actually get a solid night’s sleep. OH THE POSSIBILITIES! Here’s hoping that this month brings continued sleep longevity, because the possibility of a decent night’s sleep is almost as glorious as an actual full night of slumber for your parents.

I cannot get over how very much personality you have for someone of only eight weeks of life. We are beginning to get a sense of who you are and it is ever-so-much fun. I had forgotten that Baby TV is the best kind of entertainment. Your daddy and I could watch you all day long. Now that the world is more than mere blurry shapes, you engage with us in exciting and new ways everyday. You can go periods of 10-15 minutes entertained by the very same flying cow mobile, “Clickity Clacks,” that your sister so adored. You stomp and kick and awkwardly flap your arms, he brings you so much delight and stimulation. You raise your head and shoulders so very high when you tummy time that it has actually caused you to roll over from front to back a number of occasions.

Admittedly, I’m really not yet ready to have you rolling over, as it is so comforting to know that I can put you down in one place and not have you go anywhere, unlike that ping pong ball of a sister that we have bouncing around our home. So let’s take it easy on the speedy development, okay?

While we remember all of this from Addison, it is so very enjoyable to go through it again. And to see how you approach it all in your own Courtland way. And my dear, there is most definitely a Courtland Way. The Courtland Way is a tad bit extreme, you see.

As I said last month, unlike your sister who never spit up, you have a positively Olympic reverse peristaltic system. I experienced two projectile moments just this morning. Thank you for that. I needed some motivation to get my butt in the shower.

You also drool as though you were part Newfoundland. You must feel some kinship to Hanna, our Newfie mutt, as you two seem to be in competition for the slobberiest in the house. All those drool bibs that Momar gave me when Sunny was born are finally being put to good use. She thanks you for showing us their purpose.

And, my goodness, you are the screamiest of screamy when you are unhappy. There is no ignoring a wet diaper, or a hungry belly, or just an ornery baby in need of some rocking and snuggles. You go from zero to I-WILL-BREAK-ALL-THE-GLASS-IN-THIS-HOUSE-WITH-THE-SCREAMING-IF-YOU-DON’T-DROP-WHAT-YOU-ARE-DOING-AND-TEND-TO-ME in a heartbeat. And, since you have your daddy’s complexion and gumby-like skin, the screaming is accompanied by the reddest of faces and a furrowed and angry brow. I have a love/hate relationship with your single eyebrow raise, as it is ever so expressive and adorable, while also serving as an obvious indicator of your displeasure. You also have the most epic and extreme pout I have ever seen. You’re like a cartoon character with that pout and it is so terribly precious that it makes me want to smother you in kisses rather than attend to whatever is causing such an expression. And then the shower of kisses always causes greater screaming, so eventually you do get your way.

And while all of this may sound like complaining, I tell you all this because the flip side to the spitting up and the drooling and the screaming is the smiling and the cooing and oh my goodness, sometimes I feel like you are going to burst you are so filled with the smiles. It is far more extreme, more joyful, more pronounced than I ever remember it being with your sister, and that’s saying a lot because I most certainly remember her baby smiles, too.

You lock eyes with me and it’s as though you are simultaneously seeing me for the first time and yet recognizing the most familiar of faces, and it causes you to positively beam with delight. Your eyes squint. Your mouth opens wide, for to keep your lips sealed would limit the radiating impact of such a smile. I feel so honored, so tickled, every time to be the cause of such happiness, it makes me feel as though I too may burst at the seams. Of course, you respond quite similarly to your daddy and sister, and it is nothing short of awesome.

Beyond just the smiles, your daddy seems to elicit the most boisterous of gurgling orations from your little body, and I love listening as you two exchange great stories through the language of “coo” and “gah.”

You have filled our house with the giggles, my love. Our hallways now ring with the sound of pure, unabashed giggling, and for that, you are responsible. Because, you see, your smiles are contagious, and your sister, daddy and I are helpless to resist all your baby sweetness.

That is what I will remember most about this month. Our laughter surrounding you as you further show us that we were utterly incomplete without your smiles.

Thank you for making us whole.

143 Mama