You’ve been breathing air for 6 months! Congratulations!
You’ve done so much this month. So much input! So much adventure! So many bumps on the head due to crawling/scooting mishaps!
You went with us to the mighty State Fair of Texas and got to ride the Texas Star ferris wheel. No problems with heights, but you got chilly in the high-altitude wind.
You were pretty content to be strolled while we ate fried foods, but by the end you were pooped; Josh carried you for a while, and before we got back to the car, you gave us this look that I know I’ll see as you become a tween: “Ugh, Mom. Just... Whatever.”
You went camping again, enjoying the dirt and sun. You stayed with Gran and Pitter quite a few times, spreading your smiles, laughter, and poopy diapers to everyone!
The coolest development is that we’ve started feeding you “solids,” which is a misnomor. It’d be more accurate to say that we’ve started feeding you “smooths.” I got a Babycook, this device that steams and purees food in one container, and I’ve cooked up batches of carrots, green beans, sweet potatoes, and pears. You’ve been fed the two former, which you’ve eaten with gusto, but rice cereal is still your mainstay. Feeding you was a delightful experience; you grabbed the spoon from me and shoved it into your own mouth. At first we thought you were just obsessed with the spoon, but you learned pretty quickly that in order to get more food, you had to let go of it. Guess you were ready to eat!
Or, perhaps, you were ready to REQUIRE that we bathe you daily. (Adequate Parent confession: Sometimes, when Mommy and Dad were both tired, you did not get a bath before you went to bed. This may be a shock to you—though not so much if you’re a teenager or older—but Mom and Dad are imperfect. I know! Shocker!!!)
But, likewise, Sagan, the cracks in your perfect baby image are beginning to show. You are now aware when we take things from you. And if I’m so unlucky as to need to remove your glowy jack-o’-lantern or your sippy cup from your hand? You’re more inconsolable than when you got your latest round of immunizations! Object permanence might be handy to you and your perception of reality and otherness, but it’s inconvenient to me. Please retain your inability to remember that objects outside your sight exist. Thanks.
Your sphere of influence is growing exponentially, and your “learning radius” grows along with it. It’s to the point now where every movement, every reach, every fidget, tend to mean something beyond random muscle jags. (Except for the inconspicuous lilting of your fingers as you watch something or hang out in my arms; the little waves your fingers do simultaneously crack us up and awe us.) You can kick. You can pinch. You can grab our noses (this ability has prompted me to trim your fingernails about thrice as frequently). You’re figuring out how to do things, and I delight in your every discovery. Objects go in your mouth for evaluation. You roll and pivot on the floor to get anywhere you need to go, especially toward dangerous items like cords! And Dad’s hair trimmer! And that lower level of the glass coffee table! When people hold you, you bounce as though you’re in your exersaucer; I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the rousing, “Bounce, bounce, bounce!”
You have learned to get on all fours, which is adorable; you rock and have scooted your knees forward but haven’t figured out that your hands should move, too. But hey! When you fall forward due to your pitched center of gravity, you’ve moved about five inches in the direction you wanted! Mission accomplished!
The other day, you held yourself up against a milk crate while standing. And then – AND THEN! – you let go! Fortunately, I was there to spot you. But your confidence, trust in me, and flat-out baby-ballsiness will stay in my mind forever. So let the couch surfing begin!
You’re still drawn to any screen in the room (even the reflection of the TV in the bedroom when I try to turn you away from the actual one). You still love the iPad best.
However, you’re still thrilled by the simpler amusements; one night, a stuffed iguana was your beyond-best friend; your giggles echoed through our house and made it even more of a home:
(WARNING: Excessive superlative use ahead.)
I’m writing this the day after your half-birthday, after your dad and I celebrated our third anniversary. Over the seven years of our relationship, we’ve done a lot of great stuff. We’ve walked a labyrinth in the middle of the night in Galveston. We’ve had an amazing wedding. We’ve traveled through the gorgeously alien Icelandic landscape. But nothing we’ve done compares to creating you. I love that our anniversary takes place on the exact opposite side of the sun from your half-birthday; the love and trust I have for your dad is brought to life in you.
You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Ever known. I gaze at you as you sleep, and my breath’s taken away. Your brilliantly blue eyes are the stuff of legend, at least in my mind. I don’t know if we just think you’re this adorable because you’re ours, or if you really are that beautiful.
But it doesn’t matter, because each perceiver has his or her own reality, and you are my new reality. I have never seen anything as sublimely lovely as you.
Love, Mom
SNAPSHOT: Dislikes: When Dad or I leave the room, strong smells, having objects removed from your possession Likes: Carrots, green beans, yawping for attention, seeing Dad, just about any song Things You Can Do: Sit unassisted, pinch for small things, "crawl," look for an object you've dropped
