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.
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