Things I want to remember about you this month: Your curly eyelashes. The way you thump your feet. How you put yourself to sleep for naps almost anywhere: on the floor on a quilt, on the couch, in bed. Your coos, your grunts like a freight train arriving at a station. The way you suck down milk, gulping noisily. Your smile like a the fluttering of a hundred humming birds among the summer hibiscus. Hiccups. The intensity of your gaze. Today your blue eyes look more hazel when the light shines through your iris. The way your head smells like milk and honey and vanilla.
You are patient and peaceful and I am grateful every day for this. It was so hard to have you in my belly, but now you are a dream. I relish every day. Even the tired ones. I am smitten. Head over heels.
You only cry when you need something and then only until you are sure we get the message (the minute we start removing your pants, you stop fussing, knowing a diaper change is on it’s way.) In the night you only fuss if you are hungry, and even then you mustly grunt and wave your arms about: hey mama, some milk would be great. We both fall back to sleep as you nurse.
In the past few weeks we’ve fallen into a pretty nice rhythm at night—you sometimes even sleep for five hours in a row, which compared to how little your brother slept, feels like a blessed eternity of sleep.
Milestones: You discovered your hands this week. You stare at your balled up fists, almost going cross-eyed. You suck on them like they are some kind of delicious treat. You use them to pull your pacifier to you; to bat at toys; to grab as much of my long hair as you can hold. You cling to it like a monkey.
You also roll over tummy to back, beautifully, like a pro. You were born with this talent, and showed it to us first at two weeks old. Already you hold your head up high and steady. You prop yourself up on elbows and look around the room.
Sometimes I lie with you belly down and look too. I see shoes, legos, cookie crumbs, hair barrettes. I see people’s feet, polka-dot rainboots, the edge of the blanket, logs by the wood stove, the Persian carpet fringe. Your
Little one, right now as I type you are lying beside me on the couch on a sheepskin. You are staring up at me and waving your arms and legs about, thumping your foot down with determination, trying to get me to look at you. When I do you reward me with these otherworldly grins. Pure, pure delight. Your entire face beams, and it makes me feel like helium, like swooping barn swallows, or fireflies flitting in the tall grass at dusk.
I am so in love with you tears sometimes spring to my eyes. I love to nap with you, to hold you close, to sing you silly songs. I love how you smile at your big brother, how you seem to get that he still wants my whole lap sometimes. You wait patiently in the wings, waving your arms, chortling, cooing. I cannot believe I ever doubted loving you. I cannot imagine my days without you in them. My favorite thing is quiet mornings when you are napping on my chest and I am writing. Together we have watched spring slowly arrive outside the windows, going out cautiously under parkas to cut forsythia or collect eggs from the coop. Together we have watched the days grow longer, your first days, gradually filling with light. How I love you.
