Letter to Lucia: 24 Weeks

Honey Baby, My Little Baklava, Sweetums, Sweet Pea, Sweetheart, Baby One,

You’re six months old today—six months! As your Aunt Molly pointed out, I’m now 1/36th of the way through my mandatory eighteen years of care. Don’t worry; you haven’t driven me to a countdown. With the exception of yesterday and other days here and there, caring for you has gotten much easier. Again, with the exception of yesterday (who needed to nap? not this baby!), we have our daily routine down, more or less, to a science. From mornings spent screeching in bed while I take my shower, to tummy time while I wolf down some oatmeal, to our reading sessions on the couch, walks around the neighborhood, and hours of playtime as the day goes on—with nursing and two naps in between—we manage to get through the days smoothly and enjoyably.

You’re generally pleasant and fun to be around, especially since you seem to be learning new things and changing every single day. This month, you added some new sounds to your repertoire. You now have the raptor screech, the piercing scream, and the creaky door, which comes from way back in your throat; a new discovery. You are a very noisy baby, and I can only imagine that once you learn to talk you’re going to be just like your daddy—unstoppable. (But you’re like your mama was as a kid, too; outside of the house you’re as quiet as a little church mouse.)

You’re getting more and more curious, reaching out to touch everything in sight, whether it’s a spoonful of cereal approaching your mouth or a newly blooming tree branch in the backyard, which you like to touch when Daddy carries you around in the Bjorn after work. Last night I watched through the window as Daddy crouched down in front of some ivy; you grabbed it with both hands, studying it carefully. Everything is so new.

…And so tempting to eat. You put everything, absolutely everything, in your mouth, and sometimes when I hold you I can see you coming at me from the corner of my eye, reading to bite my chin or cheek. My sweater collars, shoulders, and sleeves, as well as the fronts of your shirts, are among your favorite things to chew on. (The deluxe $20 giraffe teether I bought you—little more than a glorified dog’s chew toy; it even squeaks—is, of course, much less interesting.) You seem to spend much of your day in mid-chomp, which is pretty cute. My little monster.

Now that you’re six months old, I plan to officially start the introduction of veggies and fruits. I have to say I’m excited. If you like the gruel-like rice cereal, then what are you going to think of avocado and pear? carrots and squash? green beans and melon? Introducing you to these things is going to be so much fun—the baby equivalent of Daddy and I eating a new food in an exciting new place.

These six months have flown by. I remember, back in the hazy, fearful days after you were born, thinking that I’d be so happy when you were six months old—a point when you’d be less terrifyingly fragile. And now here we are, with little fat rolls at your legs and pudge at your wrists and ankles, your face in a near-constant smile, piles of outgrown baby clothes behind you. Here we are.