It’s happening isn’t it? You’re growing up. Here we are at six months already. Six months that feel like a lifetime (your lifetime) and the blink of an eye all at once.
I look at you now, sitting up, wobbling with perfect posture, loving your new perspective, and can’t believe we’ve made it this far. I’m proud of myself for keeping you alive longer than most house plants, and utterly distressed that even every moment we spend together is not enough to give you all the love I have for you. You’re growing quickly, and I feel like if I close my eyes for a second too long, you’ll be off to college, or married, or experiencing this baby love yourself.
I have to tell you Graham, that I’m a bit lost. I can’t remember the
girl woman I was before you came along and, if we’re being honest, I don’t even really care to know her any more anyway. I like this me better, the me you’ve helped me become, even though I couldn’t ever have imagined being her.
But this is supposed to be about six-month-old you. Your Dad and I talk sometimes about what pieces of you are here to stay – what will last and what is fleeting, the little details we need to memorize now because tomorrow they may be gone.
You smile easily and with those bright blue eyes (those, we know now, will be ours to stare into forever), and easier still when one of us walks into the room. You flail your chubby arms excitedly and we are puddles of devotion at the sight of your giant toothless grin. I know we’re deluded to think so, but I hope it’s always like that.
Your hands, Graham: your hands are huge (by baby standards). We’re sure you’re destined to do something wonderful with them: to play guitar or piano or both, to make things, and to fix things. Your legs are strong too. You’ll happily stand on a lap and bounce bounce bounce until, like a little old man, your knees can’t take it anymore.
You’re eating your vegetables. You love our weekend trips to the pool, where the grannies always think you’re a girl because you’re that cute. You’re calm, and content, but easily frustrated (the day you figure out how to roll from your tummy to your back will be a big day in our house). I hope you’ll learn to cut yourself some slack, to fail better. These days you love when your mama sings to you – doesn’t matter what, or how off-key and out-of-tune – it always snaps you out of whatever you’re (rarely) grumpy about. I kind of can’t wait for the day that you start to sing along. (Actually, yes I can).
I think about how much you’ve learned in these six short months. I think this is my favourite time so far: the essence of you is there, warm and open (like your Dad), quiet and observant (like me), and maybe just a little shy. And, for now anyway, you stay put.
I think about the next six months and wonder who you’ll evolve into. I’m so grateful to watch.