Letter to Lucia: 16 Weeks

Little Lucia,

You’re sixteen weeks old today—four months—and it still seems crazy that we’ve had you for such a short amount of time. You’ve eclipsed everything else in our universe in so dramatic a way that it never fails to surprise me—no, shock me—to see you out in the world, where you look so incredibly small in your carseat. At home, to me, when we’re together all day and all night and my every thought is focused on your well being, you seem larger than life.

You are now blowing spit bubbles with gleeful abandon. You’re so good at it now that you sometimes spray spit everywhere, smiling all the while. You’re also starting to chew things—especially your hands—but also whatever blanket or sleeve happens to be near your mouth at any given moment. And the drool. Oh, the drool. You’re a champion drooler.

You take great pleasure now in having me stand you up on my knees. “Who’s standing? Who’s standing?” I say excitedly, and you seem excited, too. You manage to support yourself for a couple of seconds at a time before your little knees buckle. Your legs are getting strong; when you lie on your back, you kick so vigorously that your entire bottom half leaves the ground. And you’re still rolling over from tummy to back. These form your current collection of tricks.

Your napping is going well—two naps a day, morning and afternoon, with a little snooze once Daddy gets home from work—but your once-stellar nighttime sleeping has been derailed a little bit. Perhaps you’re growing; whatever the case, you’ve been waking up two times or more each night now, wanting to eat. I’m tired again. I’d gotten cocky, had been going to bed at 11pm just like the old days; I have to get back to going to sleep when you do. I hope this is a stage that will, once again, pass.

You’re about twelve pounds now, have outgrown the sink where we give you your bath, and are pushing out of a couple of your three-month sleepers. You’re becoming even more alert than before—you no longer scream bloody murder when I take you for walks; you seem to like looking around. Your expression, however, is always sober. Whereas at home with me and Daddy you’re all smiles and shrieks, when we’re out in the world you give everyone and everything a wary, appraising stare.

We have another challenge coming up, you and I: our first full weekend alone. Daddy’s going to the Super Bowl, so we’ll be on our own for two and a half days and two nights. We fared fine the last time he left; so we’ll see how this goes. Your Fusskins evenings are few and far between now, and we have our routines and rituals that keep the days under control; but it’s the bone-tiredness I’m dreading most, when an entire morning and afternoon has gone by and…an entire evening awaits. I’m sure we’ll be fine, little one.

Four months. You’re officially done with the “fourth trimester” now—and you’re on your way to getting to know the world.