How much longer is motherhood going to feel surreal? I can feel your breath on my cheek. I can hear your cries getting stronger and your giggles getting more high-pitched. I can see and smell the substance of your diapers. All these things are tangible, but this whole experience still feels like a dream.
Four months ago this world welcomed you, ushered you into my arms. Your father and I watched you carefully the first month. Your breathing, your bathroom behavior, your feeding schedule affected how we slept, when we used the bathroom, when we ate. By the second month you understood that nighttime is for sleeping, and as you sleep, you grow. There were several nights in the past month when you slept 9 or 10 hours straight, and we thought you would make a habit of these longer slumbers, but more than half the time you woke up between 1am and 2am for a snack and to keep me on my toes.
I’m proud of you for sleeping, but every morning when I pick you up, your body seems bigger and you feel heavier. Sleep works that way for adults, too. Except when we sleep for 12 hours a day we just end up getting heavier without increasing our height. That’s not exactly healthy. But the sleep you’re getting now is essential to your growth. And are you ever growing. Really, just look at you.
You may have noticed I cut my hair in the last week, and I do believe you think it’s cute. I appreciate that; I hadn’t cut my hair in nearly a year and a half, and you’re to the point of grabbing a handful of my hair and hanging on for dear life. I have never said “let go” so much as I have in the past month. And whenever I say that, the one song from the movie “Frozen” gets into my head, called “Let It Go.” I don’t think we’ll let you see that movie until you can read and then your father and I will give you our analysis and explain why a lot of the older Disney movies are better.
You do everything fast and intensely, from the way you turn your head to your desire to get up and move around. We went to the rodeo a few weeks ago, and your eyes darted from side to side while your head shifted in quick, birdlike movements. You watched the horses and bulls and cowboys and cowgirls. You hung out for two hours, so well-behaved and kind, even though the toddler in front of us was trying to hit on you. He pointed at you and smiled while you acted oblivious to it all. I pointed at him and said that you couldn’t date until you turned 27.
Speaking of milestones, you have figured out how to roll over from your back to your stomach. You know how to hold on to your bottle. It’s amazing how you want to do more things by yourself.
You self-soothe by sucking on your fingers. Never have I seen so much saliva, and for a while I thought you might be teething. I check if little white teeth are pushing through your gums, but not yet. You watch me and Dadda eat during meals; you seriously study the way we chew, and you look interested in trying solid foods in the next few months, especially with how you explore textures by putting almost everything in your mouth. Dadda and I now have to keep a closer eye on you.
Your father taught you how to blow raspberries, so that’s how we’ve been communicating lately. I imagine you like how your tongue vibrates in your mouth and how your silky slobber slides down your chin. It’s been a while since I’ve blown raspberries, but I’ve retrieved that skill so that we can play together, and I can understand why you think it’s so fun. I’ve yet to catch you doing this, so here’s a video of you talking up a storm instead.
That corner in the couch is where your dad could put you in “couch potato” position and you’d stay put. Now he places you there and five seconds later you try standing up. And then you tip over and land on your face. And then you try rolling over or just talk into the couch until I or Dadda picks you up.
Tummy time continues to impress us as you try to crawl. Like, become mobile. You manage something like an inchworm army crawl; the legs move fast but you end up scooting about an inch every five seconds. All your feet have to do is find a little traction in the carpet and push, and we may have to childproof the apartment a little earlier than we expected.
I don’t know, Zinger. A lot happened in the last month, and I don’t quite know what to think. Maybe everything happening so quickly contributes to this dream state I’m in. So many people say their babies grow up so fast; is parenthood one continuous blur? I have a feeling the answer is yes. This is the best answer.
Yet, your easy smiles and hugs and the smell of your hair; your intent eyes; your unsteady standing at the bedroom window as we watch for Dadda to come home; your hand wrapped around my finger: these are not a dream.
These past four months with you have taught me that the dream is life, and life could not be more real. The dream is you, an amazing, utterly lovable paradox.