Wednesday, December 15, 2010

A Letter to My Daughter: Three Months Old

[This was written last month but I've only now gotten around to publishing it, so I'm back-dating it to reflect the proper date.]

Dear Brennan,

You are now three months old.

I find that I repeat myself endlessly with you, in a sing-songy voice. Something along the lines of: "Oh my goodness, your diaper is SO wet! SO wet! How did it get so wet?! What are you doing with such a wet diaper?!" This isn't something I did before, so I'm telling myself it's something innate in mothers that probably aids in language comprehension. Sounds plausible, right?

You are a happy baby. I love that when you wake up, you entertain yourself by looking around and wiggling your legs instead of crying. You brighten up and grin when we pick you up, and the couple times I've caught you giggling in your sleep, my heart just melts.

People have commented that you have long fingers, so there is talk whether you will embrace the creative or the physical activities where this comes in as an advantage (for the record, we'd be happy whether you follow the route of pianist or basketball player). Apparently you have quite the complexion; I've also heard numerous mention of how good your skin looked, and I think the c-section is to credit as I see other photos of newborns with blotchier skin and the temporarily misshapen head.

You seem to know kicking your feet activates lights and sounds on your bouncy seat and activity pad, although the playtime quickly escalates into sleepy time, and if we're not quick to notice, you are not afraid to let us know - in very loud terms - how upset you are that you are now struggling to fall asleep. Those times of fighting sleep aren't the most fun for you.

I remember reading someone say they got through the hectic and crazy days of five children very close in age by reminding herself that she will one day miss it. Admittedly, you are pretty easy to take care of, but already I notice I am a little sentimental that you can now sleep through the night. I don't yet tire of reading simple storybooks or singing silly songs or dangling toys for you. And the moment these activities grow tiresome - if they ever do - I trust this adage will come to mind: "One day, I will miss this."

You never knew Katherine, but that was one gift she left us with. Every moment is precious. Sometimes I grow quiet thinking of all the things we've already learned about you and how that time with your older sister was cut too short. So I even treasure those moments you kick against me and scream because you can't fall asleep, or the times I have to rush out of the store suddenly before you wail, or lugging the much heavier carseat around along with a diaper bag and everything else. It is a gift to be a mother to you, and in parenthood, the hard days and the easy days all work together to form a lifetime.


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