Letter to Lucia: 9 Months

Little Lucia,

You’re nine months old today—you’ve now been out in the world for as long, more or less, as you were in my womb. No longer more familiar with your uterine home than with the world—and your independence, your person-ness, is coming through more and more. You are a beautiful, happy, hilarious child these days, absolutely devouring the world around you—figuratively, as you lean forward in your stroller and stare unabashedly at passersby, and literally, as anything that crosses your path is fair game for being raised to your mouth. You babble, squeal, giggle. You communicate your likes and dislikes clearly—a book you don’t wish to read is often pushed to the floor, while the one you have your eye on is lunged for. You are a mini-person, with a mind of your own, and that is thrilling to see.

You, still wordless, inspire others to say kind, complimentary, and often strange things. In the elevator just last night, a man with a spaced-out smile and a ready “dude” on his lips talked at you in a kind of rhythmic chant: “Ah, a Maclaren—nice ride…only the best…top of the line…to be nine months again, little baby…to be able to be as genius as your environment allows…” You just stared, unafraid, as you did earlier in the day, when a large dog sniffed your tiny foot. You just take it all in, people’s faces, people’s words. But you do seem to know friends when you see them—when we met some of Andrew’s MBA friends last night, you smiled at them readily.

You are crawling a version of a crawl that involves your forearms and toes. It’s more a squirm than an actual crawl, but it gets you where you want to go, whether that’s a few inches or a few feet across a room. You’re getting faster at it, and I wonder if this is just going to be your crawl—if you’ll squirm your way from this to standing and toddling. That’s fine, little one. I have a feeling you’ll be unique in all kinds of ways, your crawling style the least of them.

You seem to be aware of and fascinated by other children. There’s a nice playground across the street from Trump Place, and when we walk past, sometimes I stop and let you watch the playing children through the fence. You are enchanted—watching them run through the spraying water in the water-play area, seeing them slide and swing. Sometimes you look at them and then look up at me as though to say, “Mama, can I play, too?” And now that we’ve ventured in—we swung yesterday for the second time, to your utter delight—you seem so happy to be part of it all. But it occurred to me, when I saw the happiness on your face, how strangely sad it might be for me when you do eventually run off to play—with other kids, away from me. It’s so exhausting, sometimes, but so indescribably peaceful, to be, right now, all you need.

You still love bath time. You now hate having your diaper changed. When I put you on your back on the bed, you flip to your tummy immediately; when you’re in an especially playful mood, you flip back and forth over and over again, squealing in glee. Your laugh is a precious thing to hear—and you give your biggest laughs only for Daddy. Sometimes he calls me when he’s on his way home from work, and we meet him outside—on Broadway, or on Pier I—and your face breaks into a smile when you spot him. You are, however, quite Mama-focused right now; you often cry when I’m out of your sight.

We’re in New York City now, our new home, with grandparents and aunts and friends easy drives and train rides and flights away. I’m so glad to be back in what feels like the center of our world with you, little one.

**Pictures are from 7/4/10.