The Fidg at 7 Months

Dear Fidg -

Today you are seven months old. Seven. Clearly, I haven't written you a letter each month. I can't promise I'll write one each month from now on - though it's a very mom-blog thing to do. But I felt like writing one tonight as I watched you sleeping on my lap upstairs, after your first wake-up of the evening.

That's you in the picture - in your shirt with the owl and some babylegs leg warmers. You're sitting on the blanket your Auntie Sarah knitted for you. The babylegs and the shirt don't match. Blame your dad. I'm pretty sure you slept in that shirt the night before, too. And wore it during the day before. Despite having more clothes than any baby could wear in your room upstairs.

While watching you sleep, I was thinking of your first night home from the hospital. In my mind, that's your second night, but, of course, it wasn't, it was your fourth night.

That first night at home, Fidg. Oh, that first night. Your daddy and I won't forget that, ever. I spent the whole evening trying to get you to latch and eat. We were both failing miserably. When we finally tried to put you to bed, you cried. And cried and cried. And cried. And then you cried. And cried some more. Mommy sobbed, you cried, daddy paced. And on and on it went.

I cried because I thought I'd never be able to feed you - to take care of you. I cried because I hadn't had a chance to yet, in the push to push and the rush to gut me like a fish and pull you to safety. I cried because I hadn't realized I truly looked forward to you being placed on my chest and staring at you, holding you in those first few moments. I cried because that moment won't ever happen. And because I was tired. And because you were crying. It was the loudest sound ever.
Daddy finally got you to suck on his finger. He stood stooped over your bassinet for as long as he could. Hours maybe. Daddy and I prayed for the dawn and for quiet and for sleep - for you, for us.

In my memory you cried the entire night. I don't know if that's true. Time changes with a new baby. It's still not back to normal.

By the morning, you were somewhat quiet. We stumbled downstairs, the three of us with puffy eyes. I made a doctor's appointment because you were just a ball of yellow unhappiness. You were sleepy finally - but that was the jaundice and not actually a good thing. Your grandparents in the guest room downstairs had heard nothing at all - shocking considering you were making the loudest noises in the history of noise.

We left for the doctor's office and realized halfway there that we'd left the diaper bag with some essential paper or another at home. And daddy missed the off-ramp. But your grandfather saved the day by driving it out to us. We were a wreck. But you were sleeping.

And that was just shy of seven months ago. So many of those early days are a blur. Back then, I prayed for the sunrise each night - the faintest glimpse of morning light signaling another night survived. Later, I'd pray for nighttime because I wouldn't have to figure out how to fill a day again. Now? I don't know.

Seven months and you roll over like a champ, sway back and forth on all fours (thiiiis close to figuring out how to make all four limbs work together), your dad says you're thiiiis close to pulling yourself to standing. You can't sit up alone quite yet. You're still exclusively breastfed and you haven't tried food yet, but that's coming. You stare, slack-jawed at everything daddy and I eat, pretty clearly awestruck and envious. Your hair might be growing in - there's some fuzz up top. I swear I can see you grow sometimes and though I can't quite recall how tiny your hands were at birth, I know they look huge now. I think the last time you were in a stroller was in Reno when you forgot you hated strollers and went for a ride in the snap-n-go in Homegoods. The $400 fancy stroller? Can't remember the last use, but mommy needs to run, so its time will come and I hope you give it a fair shot. Lately, you aren't loving your car seat - but it seems worse if people sit next to you - my theory is you can't figure out why someone would sit there and NOT pick you up. You'd rather be picked up, always. You've been on one plane ride and are soon to go on your second, this time in your own, $300 seat. You smile at us often, you're starting to notice when I leave the room and -worse- when I leave the house, you don't laugh easily, but it's worth it when you do. Last night, we took you to dinner (okay, we took ourselves) at the brand new Black Bear Diner (livin' large!) and you couldn't take your eyes off the other babies there and even more so, their balloons. So I got you one - a yellow one - and you loved it. There were giggles and big eyes.

There will be more balloons, I promise.