Urban Drool

My Little Pickle,

This past Friday you turned 4 months old.

…and you decided to celebrate your birthday by getting three vicious intra-muscular injections in the thigh (I know! What a thrill-seeker you are!) and starting the process of cutting 2 teeth.

Wow.

I feel like I could write for pages and pages about all the wonderful and amazing things you have done and seen and been. But then I try and actually write and find that I am at a loss. It’s as if mere letters and words and punctuation are not nearly adequate enough tools to put forth how incredible your very existence is and how much of an impact you have had on my life. How do you find written language to describe the most heart-breakingly beautiful rainbow you’ve ever seen?

But I’ll try…

…you will either greet me every morning with an ice-melting smile and sparkle in your eye or you will shriek like a possessed banshee until a nipple has been shoved in your gaping maw. It’s always a toss-up.


…one of your favorite times of the day has become “Nakey-Baby Time.” This is where Papa and I strip you down to your bare-ass skin and lay you down on our bed (a top layer upon layer of towels of course) and let you wiggle and squirm and squee and coo and flip from back to belly to back and grunt and ggrrrrr in frustration as you try so desperately to crawl. You absolutely adore being naked.

…you have recently discovered the animals that (rule with an iron fist over) occupy our house. They have been there this whole time, but you just now are picking up on their presence. You love the kitties and how soft they are when I run your little pudgy hand down their backs, but I think your favorite is Mr. Harold. Mama’s beautiful, stubborn and completely un-trainable Beagle is gentle as a lamb with you (so far.) He has discovered that if he lays on the bed mere inches away from the farthest that you can possibly reach, you will lie, facing him, grunting and squee-ing and trying to get to him. For endless minutes. And he refuses to move a centimeter closer to you. It’s like the most adorable little game of chess, and so far, he knows that he will always win. He loves it. And so do I.

…every time I am holding you and your father comes up to us to greet you, you dazzle him with HUGE smiles while simultaneously turning your head from him to bury it in my chest. Every. Time. You are so coy and cute – pretending to be bashful. And then you peek out from the sanctuary between my breasts to make sure that he noticed that you are totally flirting with him. And he? Eats it up like ice cream with a spoon.

…you can grab now. And grandpa has an awesome, bushy beard that invariably SCREAMS for you to bury your little hands in and grab and twist. It’s never been so much fun watching my father in agonizing pain.

…you got a little too much sun this past week on one of your daily walks with Papa. And by a little too much sun, I mean a little redish splotch on one of your cheeks. But Papa had to call me at work and confess his horrid failings as a father and you would think that he had callously dropped you into a pot of boiling oil, so sorrowful was he.

…Mr. Blue Raccoon has been dumped. He is gone. He is SO last month. But Mr. Bee continues to be your comrade, your sole confidant. He also must taste really good, because you are constantly shoving some random plastic part of his anatomy in your mouth.



…you really like going over to Katie and Ryan and Mya’s house, but seem to get pissy when Mya (who is 6 WHOLE WEEKS OLDER THAN YOU!) thrusts her bear-like paws into your mouth…or ear…or up your nose. You scream in indignation. And although I always come over to “rescue” you, I can’t help but laugh my ass off. You two girls are the most beautiful pair. Your physical differences make both of you all the more breathtaking when we lay you side by side. One so very fair and blond and blue eyed, and the other so olive and dark and sparkly. Your Aunt Katie and I agree that we are going to enjoy ourselves immensely, watching you two growing up and simultaneously loving and hating each other with every passing day. I can’t wait for the day that I hear,
“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! Mya stole my Polly Pocket and she won’t give it BBBBBBBAAAAAAAAACK!!!”



…actually, I can wait for that day. I am so scared of you growing up too quickly. I have loved every tiny baby-moment of your tiny baby-life. I loved the fresh-out-of-the-oven newborn squadge. I loved the 3 weeks old colicky squadge. I loved the 5 weeks old and can already hold up her head and grin at people squadge. I loved the 3 months old and can wiggle and kinda-sorta-hold things and blink sleepily at me while nursing squadge. And I love, I love, I LOVE the strong, squirmy, smiling, LAUGHING, already developing a captivating sense of humor 4 month old squadge.

Your skin is the softest thing I have ever felt and I can never decide which smell I like better: your just-out-of-the-bath-and-smelling-like-fresh-berries smell or your haven’t-been-bathed-for-a-couple-days-and-smelling-like-warm-sleep-and-milk smell.

I love your unwashed-smelling-like-milk smell. It’s so amazingly compelling. You smell like you belong to me.



Warm sloppy kisses all over your belly,
Mama