October 18, 2008
four months.
dear jude,
today you are four months old. we told you this information last night as you were about to go to sleep. we said, tonight you need to sleep really hard, because tomorrow, you will be a whole month older. just like next week, when mama bananie will wake up to a whole new decade.
this morning, you woke up with a new array of coos and smiles, and you held your head a little higher with your four-month-oldness. we three lounged all morning in the fambly bed, and you nursed long and happily. i promised that i would not be leaving you today, and you grabbed my pinky and made me promise.
we celebrated this big day by attending the tour de fat at fiesta garden on town lake. your uncle macon's band, paper bird was playing, and when you weren't napping, you were totally into the music. i must say, you've got a taste for great bands.
the noise and new people were a bit much for you at times today, and you crumpled into a sobbing mess every once in awhile. in those moments, i cradled you close to me, and your cries turned to squeals. thank you for this: for trusting me enough to feel security in the midst of your fear.
this month, you have become more aware of strangers, and you're not so keen to be passed around so much anymore. you have a need to return to home base, to regroup, and as a fellow introvert in an extroverted world, i wholly understand this. the flipside of your wariness is a deeper understanding of who your people are. you snuggle me more deliberately these days; it's like you are figuring out passing moments, and are holding tightly to them as best you can.
just today, you kissed me for the first time. you leaned forward, put your mouth on my mouth, and then pulled away and smiled.
dear one, you've been having a hard time dealing with me being at work every day. mama h tells me stories of your fussiness, and how it is only remedied by my return in the evening. this is not to say that the two of you don't have a blast all the time, because you do. you take walks with your puppies on a daily basis, you take long luxurious baths with your mama h, and you read lots and lots of books. olivia is currently your favorite.
i want you to know that i miss you too, every single day, and that your mamas are constantly putting their heads together to figure out just how to create an ideal work/home balance. trust us. life is good.
by the way, here's a non-sequitur: last week, you decided that your favorite thing to do is bounce. whoever holds you must bounce you to keep you happy. your head flops around a bit like you're getting into a really good song, and you swivel your hips like you're hula-hooping. and so mama h came home from the store the other day with this insane rainforest-themed jumparoo. we call it the overstimulation machine, and you love it like nobody's business.
i am pretty confident that you are about to wake up from your nap any second, so let me close with this thought: i love writing these monthly letters to you. until you find your own words, i feel as though i am your storykeeper, your chronicler. there is nothing more sacred than the act of telling your story, of keeping it alive and always present tense. remember this, my love. your story is a gospel of moments, blessed and so very alive.
i love you,
mama
