May 8th, 2013
When Miss Mouse was tiny, I spent a lot of emotional energy looking forward. I couldn’t wait for her to be able to roll. To sit up. To crawl. To walk. To try solid foods. All of those milestones that happen in the first year were cause for much anticipation and celebration.
With Buggie, I think I lived in the moment a little bit more. I savored his baby-ness and made sure we spent lots of time noozling together. But I was still excited to watch him progress from tiny creature to sprightly little man.
When it comes to Little Bird, however, I am in full-fledged milestone denial. I refuse — refuse, I tell you — to let her get bigger. She’s only seven weeks old and yet I already have total pregnancy amnesia. I vaguely remember telling Josh I never wanted to be pregnant again because I was so darned sick and I felt like a cruddy mom much of the time.
But that was two whole months ago, people, and now I have baby fever and have been plotting how to convince my husband we need another bio baby. Not right now, mind you, but down the road. When my baby isn’t a baby anymore. He meets these suggestions with slack-jawed incredulity, followed by an emphatic NO.
In the light of his resistance, then, I want Little Bird to stay just like this:
Or perhaps this:
I mean, seriously. Look at that face (not to mention that hair!). Why would anyone want it to change??
Sure, the fact that she cries anytime you put her down – requiring me to spend most of my days as a bipedal marsupial – gets old. And sleeping no more than three hours at a clip is exhausting. And there are times when I desperately want to be able to leave the house without a satchel of diapers and wipes and other gear.
And, let’s face it: I smell like baby puke.
But then I snuggle up with my girl for a nap and she squirms into a comfortable position, tucked into my arms with her head under my chin. She sighs and falls trustingly asleep. Or she’ll gaze up at me from the changing table and break into the biggest, most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen in your life. Or she’ll clutch one chubby hand onto my shirt as she sleeps on my chest in the rocking chair.
And I love her so much it actually makes me cry to think that the clock is ticking — galloping really — and each day brings her further away from the tiny wee creature I met seven weeks ago.