Dear Baby G,
As I write this, you are napping in your crib. PRAISE THE LORD, you are sleeping on a flat, unmoving surface, unswaddled, without a boob in your mouth. It really is a time of miracles. I might cry.
These days, I cry far more than you do. I cry when you rest your head on my shoulder. I cry when you reach your arms out to me to be picked up. I cry when I realize the little hands that grab and pull my hair will one day be the hands that drive a car, do a keg stand, and hold your own baby.
But for the most part, you are cool as a cucumber. You are very busy and important, and you have little time for crying.
Still, you manage to perplex me in other ways.
You toy with my heart by saying, “Mamama” and then turn away as soon as I pick you up.
You nap for 40 minutes when I put you down, but for the babysitter you’ll sleep for two hours.
You don’t flinch when Lulu and Pippa attack your face with their tongues, but you scream bloody murder when I cut your toenails.
You charm and flirt with random strangers, but whip out a camera and you go all blue steel on me.
What’s up with that, kiddo?
The months are flying by, and so are my 40 minutes. I plan to vastly clean up my act by the time you start forming memories, so don’t worry about those tears I was talking about…just do me a favor and promise to hold off for a while on the keg stands.
I love you always,