2009

from the lowest low...

to such great heights.

happy new year, friends.

Jack. Hates. Food.

You'd never tell by looking at him.
What with those ruddy cheeks
And the way it looks like rubber bands encircle his wrists
But listen to the harried mother
Who has tried in many, many ways
To give her poor bosom just a bit of a rest
And introduce her son to the delights of cuisine
(and come up woefully short)
That this delightful, beautiful child
With such a zest for life
And a tendency to put everything (and I mean everything) in his mouth
Will not suffer
The occasional
bite
of
food.

Dear Jack

Today you are six months old. While I write this, you are on the floor of your room, "airplaning." You stretch that long body of yours and cycle between pushing up on your arms, angling on one knee, and giving up altogether to roll instead. You've gotten quite efficient at getting to whatever you want, but I can see (and hear) your determination to move in a forward trajectory. I will blink one day very soon, and you will be crawling to me. Your growth seems to have levelled off a bit, but you've reached 20lbs, so it's safe to say you're still a big, big boy. Your hair is thicker and longer and lately I've been thinking it's "Biden-esque," with a little extra at the nape of your neck. Minus the bald spot, of course.

I've made some notes about all the changes and all you've been doing over the last month. The list is long - new friends, new experiences, new sounds, new skills. You continue to amaze me, humble me, and thrill me. You are not always easy, but you are such happy, happy kid. You're growing and changing in so many ways. But I'm not going to list it all here, today.

What I want to tell you today, my sweet son, is how much joy you bring people. You're a social butterfly with a sweet, sweet smile. Being out with you is one way to chase away any cold, gray-day blues that can creep in this time of year. People light up in your presence and you rarely disappoint. I feel like your agent or rep - lucky to be in your inner circle, where I can catch some of that glow. I love to show you off and sometimes I feel like a candy striper in a weary world. It makes me so happy that people's days can brighten at the sight of you.

When you gaze up at me when we rock, when I read to you, or when you're in your carrier, my heart breaks into a million pieces. When you fall asleep in my arms or on my chest, or even when you lean in close, my battery is recharged.

From my favorite book these days:

"How do I love you?
It's impossible to say.

For if I had a million days,
and time enough for all the praise,
I couldn't tell you all the ways...I love you."

I feel so very undeserving of the gift that is you, but I am never ungrateful.

Love,

Mama

happy thanksgiving

Dear Jack,

Today you are 5 months old. You’re napping now, which means I probably have about 25 minutes to write this letter. You take these little power naps and wake up with a smile, but I do think you need more rest. I’m trying to do my best to help you sleep better, but you may just be, well, like me. We will both be dragging your father out of bed on Saturday mornings.

Over the last month, you seem to have grown more in length than chub. You still have great big jowls and pork chop thighs, but you seem so long. Your hair is starting to sprout a little more and looks different in every kind of light – light brown, white blond, even a little strawberry at times. Your eyes are crystal blue with a darker blue outline, like mine, but prettier. People love to comment on your eyes. It helps that you are a regular charmer, grinning at everyone you meet. It’s wonderful, but it makes me feel a little bit like you are a germ magnet. Everyone wants to touch you! I can’t say I blame them.

I carry you in the ergo now that you’re so big. You are content to see the world from this vantage point, and every now and then you look up at me. I love the way people smile when they see us snuggled up like that. When you’re on your own, kid, you’re moving. You roll, roll, roll. For now you seem to only roll to the right side, but you’ll begrudgingly roll back to the left if you get in a pickle. I’ve moved the coffee table so you have the whole living room floor to roll around on. A couple of times I’ve seen you prop up on your knees but lose motivation. You’ll be crawling before we know it.

You’ve been a loud kid for most of your five months, but you’ve really turned it up a notch. You have started squealing and babbling with more frequency. In the evenings, you “talk” to your dad and squeak at the dog. I’ve heard all the vowel sounds and every now and then an “l” or a “g” or an “m.” You know your name now.

When I think about how much has changed in the last five months, I realize that you’re not waiting for me. I’m not sure why I ever thought you would. Go on, Jack. I’ll catch up.

Love,

Mama

hey little monkey

brought to you by our favorite photographer, Gram.

from the archives

You were born a little yellow and your second night here, you had to sleep under those crazy blue lights. I could hardly stand it, seeing you there with just a diaper and a blindfold on, aching for comfort. I warmed up blankets and put them all around you and stayed awake all night to keep a (moving) hand on you and savor the few minutes I could hold and nurse you. In the spectrum of things that can go "wrong" with a baby, this was surely mild, but the only time I have felt more helpless was the night before, when after a day and a half of labor it became clear that you would be delivered from an incision in my abdomen. You were so new, so fresh, so small. Your place was in my arms, on my chest, at my breast. Not under those blue lights. Not alone. My body ached for sleep, but I was afraid that if I nodded off, I'd awaken to find you staring up at those LEDs, going blind, or flailing in search of human touch. I spent the time between nursing nervously adjusting your blindfold, stroking your cheeks and arms, lending a finger for you to hold. You slept, but only after we finally offered you the pacifier. When I think back now to how opposed I was to them, I feel silly. I "get" the arguments for avoiding them. They are logical and practical. In a perfect world we may have avoided them. But just like with almost everything else that has happened since you were born, being certain isn't a luxury I have. In fact, certainty is foolish.

When you were in that little plastic box, I realized why most parents will do almost anything to comfort their children. I wanted to protect you, too, from the billirubin in your blood. I was on the brink. It worked. Thank God. I learned a lot that day. Hard lessons that cemented my growing, changing role as your Mama. I will spend my life in the flux of protecting and comforting you. Praying I get it right.