Letter to Lucia: 8 Months

It’s a belated letter, but a letter nonetheless; when you turned eight months old, we were computerless, having just overseen the packing up of our house in Roseville. For two days you had nowhere to sit except on our laps or in your stroller, as we watched all of our furniture and things being packed and loaded into a truck headed East. You hated the sound of packing tape being spooled out, erupting into hysterical cries each time you heard it, so you and I spent a good amount of time walking around the neighborhood and on the nearby hiking trail, escaping the noise.

But now here you are, eight months old and a true city girl. We have been amazed at your adaptability and calm during these hectic past few days. You slept the whole flight over, and, after a very fussy and confused first day, have gotten right back onto your regular schedule and have been sleeping better than ever. You seem to love New York—you love walking around in your new umbrella stroller, and you sometimes prop yourself up on your elbows so you can peer around the edges. You’re unfazed by the subway—not scared at all by the noise and crowds—and you simply look around at everyone, sometimes staring, which you will soon learn you’re not supposed to do in New York. Fortunately you’re cute enough to get away with it.

You are trying desperately to crawl, and I thought for certain you’d crawl in Roseville; but now I think you’ll be crawling very soon here in Trump Place. You manage to get from sitting into a half-crawling position, but one leg always seems to get in the way. You still manage to get where you want to go, however, by scooting on your little bottom and pulling yourself with your hands to whatever is enticing you—like the knobs on our dresser drawers.

Our new-food introductions have stalled because I haven’t been able to make anything lately, and we’re definitely in a baby-food rut. Just before we left California, I pureed some peaches from the farmer’s market so you could have a taste of a real California peach—you tasted it, frowned, gagged, took another bite at my coaxing, gagged again, and then vomited dramatically, the first time in months and months you’ve actually done that. I felt horrible, and that was the end of the peach experiment.

Apartment-hunting here is much different with you in the picture; our requirements are so much different than they once were, the required size of the apartment suddenly no longer one-bedroom but two. After seeing a lovely apartment that we would have snapped up were we only a couple, we sometimes say in mock exasperation, “That baby!” But we don’t really mean it. It is incredibly fun to have you with us in the city we love, and I am so anxious to have our home in place so we can start exploring and taking advantage of all the things we wanted to return to so desperately.

We did have one city-casualty so far: Sophie the Giraffe, your $20 chew toy, managed to escape from your stroller somewhere in Brooklyn yesterday. She is off now on her own city adventure. You don’t seem to miss her; but I feel bad. Lesson learned—loose toys don’t last for long in a city of curbs and subway steps and acrobatically kicking babies.

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