You’re days away from your first steps as you cross the threshold from infantdom to toddlerhood—it’s as if only days have passed since you joined us on that balmy evening last December. This is a sign of your impending independence—not that everything else wasn’t a sign, because it was, like birth, babbling, rolling, sitting, and crawling were—and we could not be more eager to learn more about who you are. You have a captivated audience. The liveliness practically dances from those magnificent, maternally inspired eyes; every calculated utterance and motion, is a testament to your unfaltering drive to experience all there is to experience.
And yet you have your father’s patience. Every fit of inconsolable whininess, just a ruse to temper the perfection of demeanor that is your birthright. You never let the little things get to you—and, at your age, there are no “big things” with which you must yet contend, so you’re in a pretty good spot, little Lulu.
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I love planes. Man, planes are so cool. They’re big, you sit in them, and they take you to places way faster than a car can. How cool is technology?
Mom and Dad are taking me to PA this weekend to see my family. I’m going to see Grammy and Pop Pop, Granny and Popsy, all my uncles (except Uncle David in Korea), and I hope to see the Gorski side. Poor Mom misses that side of the family. I think she really wants to see everyone. She said something the other day about how she hasn’t seen them in so long and misses spending Christmas up there, so I think this is really for her. The fact that she gets to show me off to these people is just a bonus.
Ha ha. Yeah, right, Mom. (more…)
I have no idea how it happened, but you are now four months old. Four. That’s many days and weeks old. Almost too many. (You’re really four months and four days old, but who’s counting?)
When you were born, I told your father that we have a new clock, a new way to tell time—and it’s terrifying because I wonder if I’ll always want to slow it down, rewind it, to just stop time for a moment and admire you. But then I think If you’re this cool now, imagine what it’s going to be like when I can have complete, coherent conversations with you. What can I learn from you?
You were a newborn once, I swear to you (and myself) that you were. You were 8 pounds, 6.6 ounces, and you were mushy and happy and serene. You’re now eating rice cereal, refusing any kind of formula, you love apple juice (just like I did when I was a kid), and smiling. Oh, those smiles. There is one smile, though, I have yet to photograph, and I doubt I’ll ever get to. You give it only to me. It’s the smile very few people in life ever get to experience, like the kind where a long-lost lover returns, and you smile because your world just brightened up. It’s a subconscious, instantaneous smile of recognition, I think. You give it to me when I come to get you in the middle of the night when you’re cooing over the monitor, conversing happily with shadows, or when we get ready to nurse. (That’s when you also do “big eyes” and make an “Oooh!” sound.) Please remember to give me that smile just once in awhile when you’re a teenager, ok? It’ll help me put things in context.
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It’s almost a certainty… little Lucidia is teething. Slobberingly, gruntingly, babble-ly teething. It’s as if she developed an insatiable appetite for knuckles overnight…
To tell the truth, this has been going on for a couple weeks, as Granny is my witness. (more…)
