Impossible

You are eight months old today (purely by the grace of leap year) and that seems practically impossible.

This is you then. You were tiny--seven pounds and twelve ounces-- with a perfectly shaped head and the most perfect little lips. You were curious and alert and quick to pick up new skills, like eating.
And here you are a few days ago. You've tripled your birth weight (and then some) maintained about the same volume of hair and developed legs that are powerful and, well, ample. You are determined, curious and vocal. You still pick up new skills easily, especially when related to eating or drinking.It seems impossible that eight months ago you were incapable of holding up your head on your own or seeing the world in clear focus. You ate just a squirt of colostrum each day and seemed satisfied by the bounty. Today, you've nursed three times, lustily downed cheerios and will no doubt scream for yogurt and applesauce when you get up. You love peas, have taken a shining to broccoli spears, and no doubt dream about lakes of sweet potato and squash at night. You love to dance, laugh at so many small little surprises and delight in exploring the noises you make (louder ones are more fun).

Not a day goes by that I don't shake my head in wonder. We were chosen for one another; there is no other way to explain how perfectly we fit together. From seven pounds to twenty three, you still fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. You sleep soundly in space that is carved out for you in the curve of my belly and chest each night. You let me read the paper every morning for at least fifteen minutes. You are not allergic to Peanut, seem to tolerate the coffee I love to drink and neither of us ever gets tired of reading Moo, Baa, La La La! You even charmed the wait staff at a fancy restaurant the other night by being perfectly pleasant and (quietly) entertaining yourself by launching cheerios across the table.

From the day you were born I have delighted in taking you out and claiming you as my child. Day One we walked to the ice cream shop and shocked/thrilled people when they asked how old you were ("she was born this morning!"). These days, you get a lot of compliments on your cheeks and eyes and thighs. People will work hard to get one of your smiles and when you bestow one, the skies open up and the rays of light start beaming down. Never mind that even if you're dressed in pink folks think you're a boy. No big deal.

It seems impossible that in just another four months you'll be one year old. Inconceivable. How is it that I'm already looking at pictures and saying, "I remember when you were just a tiny little baby..." You ARE a tiny little baby. Except that you scream when I take away my cell phone and you seem to have opinions on any number of things things: like which of Peanut's tricks is funniest, how loud the music can be played before it's scary and that it's fun to imitate coughing noises.

I was brought to tears this week by Anna Quindlen's article in Newsweek. I found her description of watching her grown son set up house post-college gut wrenching. I am not naive, I know that the time will come and if time continues to pass as quickly as the last eight months, it will be upon me in the flash of an eye. Impossible.

Down on the Farm

If you were a boy your name would probably be Richard Jamison Ard Waller -- Jamison for everyday. Your dad and I have a good friend from our days in Nashville who is notoriously bad at keeping in touch with us named Jamison. While you wouldn't have been his namesake exactly we both agreed that the name itself was beautiful and we could forgive Jamison for being one of the worst correspondents on the face of the earth.

On our recent whirlwind tour through Nashville (what a fabulous trip!) we decided to give Jamison a call to alert him to the fact that we were going to be in the area. I told your dad that if he answered the phone, I would eat my hat. A few minutes later, I was gnawing on the bill of my cap. Jamison answered and told us that he was home, with his wife (a wonderful surprise for us) on a small little farm about 45 minutes east of Nashville. Never ones to pass up time with chickens, mules and pigs, we stopped and then decided to swing back on our way out of town for an evening on the farm.

We woke up late (you sleep well on farms) and then took a stroll around the property, greeting the livestock and soaking in the remarkable beauty of the place. Your dad and I are constantly dreaming of setting up shop on a piece of land and running a small farm; we have a hunch that farm life agrees with you too.

Teeth. What are they Good For?

We've been peering in your mouth anticipating the arrival of teeth for about two months now. I was pretty convinced you didn't have any and we'd have to get you fitted for little baby dentures. Yesterday we found what we've been waiting for; just below the surface of your lower gums are signs of impending teeth. All of a sudden, I'm wanting them to beat a quick retreat.

Your gummy smile is one we've all gotten used to and LOVE LOVE LOVE. You seem to do just fine chewing without teeth, so I don't know what the big hurry is. Teeth seem like such a big person thing: you have to brush them all the time, get them scraped clean at the dentist and worry about them getting knocked out during sports games. Babies don't need teeth and you're a baby.

But today the teeth were closer to the surface than they were yesterday and I imagine tomorrow they'll be closer still. That's just the way it goes. If I'm this woozy over teeth, imagine what I'll be like when you hit puberty.

Save the Pools!

You were born in a summer that is now recorded as one of the driest since the Dust Bowl. Or, at least that's what London's Independent newspaper had to say about it last June. While we were in DC I was certainly aware that summer thunderstorms weren't ruining many of my evening walks, but the drought wasn't a featured topic of conversation with friends. But boy did we move from the frying pan into the fire. Atlanta needs a drink in the worst kind of way.

We're still months away from summertime temperatures and the real water hysteria but there's an article about the water levels at Lake Lanier, the tri-state family feud over water rights and the ways each county is cutting water consumption in every issue of the AJC. And the worst is not yet upon us...they are considering closing swimming pools.

This is a problem for us because just yesterday you showed a real proclivity for splashing around in highly chlorinated bodies of water. Parent/Tot Swim at the YMCA now ranks as one of your favorite things to do; relaxing in a warm bath at home now ranks a distant second. For a child who loves water so much, you had pretty bad timing. A water baby born in a drought year. It figures.

So we'll keep our fingers crossed about swimming in pools this summer and continue to be very thankful that the YMCA is an indoor pool with a very good heating system.

PS. A word about the pictures: you are undeniably a large baby and swimsuit season has come a bit early this year. On top of that, we've signed up for another year of the buy-nothing-new experiment so I had to buy the first suit I cam across at the consignment shop. It's not my favorite and I don't think it does your figure any favors. Please don't hold this against me in your pre-teen years.

Super Fat Tuesday

It only happens once in a blue moon; Mardi Gras and Super Tuesday fall on the same day. Here are two photos to celebrate the auspicious occasion!

I'll never tell anyone what you had to do to get all those beads...