7 months, 5 days

Dear Clementine:

I've been working on this letter for a few days when I'm supposed to be working, and I couldn't finish it in time. Part of it is workload, but the other part is my lack of attention span these days. When I think of you, I have to go look at a photo of you or wander across the hall to tell Laura or Aunt K the latest cute or funny thing you did, and then I blow the time to write this. Also, I must confess I'm not feeling all that circumspect, all that poetic. I feel like I'm winging it these days, not finding much time to reflect on what you're doing and how you're growing because I'm so busy just trying to enjoy it all. It's kind of a curse--do I write about life or live it?

Anyway, I will always remember this month as the one you made my heart skip a dozen beats a day as you teetered on the side of your crib or in front of the couch trying to stand up. All of the sudden, you’re a girl on the move. It happened in a blink of an eye; one day you were rocking back and forth on all fours, the next you were crawling and now you’re pulling yourself up to standing on anything that will be still long enough to support your weight, even the cat. Gone are the days of being able to leave you flailing your limbs on a blanket while I run into the other room because you’re getting into everything! This curiosity comes with no caution whatsoever (what do I expect, you are a baby after all?), and what’s killing me is the way you hurl yourself down when you’re done standing, often slamming your head on the hard wood floor. Stop it, kid!

No good can come of this standing stuff. My favorite part of the crawling, though, is that once you’ve exhausted your love of all the paper you can reach, the remote controls and your dad’s shoes, you want to crawl to wherever I am in the house and into my lap. It’s petty of me to bask so much in those moments you reach for me, the times you prefer my arms to anyone else’s, but I live for them and am going to enjoy them for as long as I can. Of course I can forsee a time in the very near future when I won't think this separation anxiety is cute at all. It's nice to feel wanted, but if that means I can't leave you with a babysitter so your dad and I can continue to work on our street cred by getting to a show now and then, there will be trouble. But for now, they are the sweetest moments, to know you see me as your touchstone, a calm and safe place.

Now that you are up and around, I find myself thinking about the future and where it may take all of us. For a while I was just imagining a time you when you can feed and dress yourself: what will you look like? What kind of kid will you be? What will your first word be? But then I started thinking of you at school, driving, dating, drinking (in secret, in high school, in the parking lot when you're supposed to be in class if you're anything like your parents and I hope to hell you aren't). When I think of how many lifetimes we've lived in just seven months, I can't even imagine all we'll go through before you hit puberty.

I don't have much to say this month but thank you. You are a joy, a quirky, funny little baby who knows what she wants. You want to walk. You want to be on the move. You don't want me to put any clothes on you that must go over your head. You do not want to eat from a spoon unless you are holding it (since you can't hold it, that's quite a problem), and you don't want to eat anything but avocados, tomatoes, Cheerios, pickles and cheese. And one last little thing. This month, my sweetest memories are of the mornings. You usually wake up first and then crawl over to your dad or me and pat our faces (sometimes a little too vigorously, thank you very much) and pull our hair to wake us up. You like to roll around between us, touching us, burying your face on us, doing this cute little head-butt cuddle that makes me quiver it's so cute, my little baby Conehead. Your face is extra-chubby and perfect, extra-pliable and wonderful, and your eyes are bludebird blue, perfect and happy as you make all sorts of sounds. When one of us gets up, you follow us with those eyes, strain to keep us in eyesight and then fuss until we come back. Our return to bed makes you erupt in the biggest smile and sometimes even a breathless burst of laughter, like we are all you need to be ecstatic. It makes it damn near impossible to get showered and dressed, and we're later and later for work all the time. Who the hell cares? These are the moments I could never have imagined before you arrived--the sublime, easy happiness you bring to us just by breathing.

I love you,

Mama