October 23, 2006
6 Months
Bean –
Yesterday you turned six months old. In preparation for these newsletters I try to keep a running list on my computer of cute stuff you do, hoping that when I sit down to write the newsletter it will create a flash of recognition of talking points that prove your overt, quiz-team crushing genius. This month, however, the list looked more like a bad Freshman Comp attempt at cool poetry:
Reaching hands
Poop
Lovey and turn
Barfing in the crib
Hidden Cheerios
We took you for your 6-month shots today, and we were betting that you would weigh 15 ½ pounds. No luck: you weighed only 14 pounds, which means that in two months you have only gained one pound. That puts you in the tenth percentile for height and weight. The tenth percentile is clearly unacceptable for your SAT scores, but I think that it's cute for your size. When you’re old enough to play hide-and-seek with your cousin, he’ll look like the Sta-Puft marshmallow man lumbering through the streets of New York in Ghostbusters while you will be a quick, sprightly little Tinkerbell. You’re healthy in your wee little tenth percentile, and that’s all that matters. I can always buy you stilts so you can wash dishes. There’s no getting out of that.
This month, you pooped on your dad for the first time. It was glorious. Your dad kept telling me “Honey, I think she peed, her diaper’s hot” which I took to mean “I’m playing my computer game and I have to cast a spell on this Dark Dragon of Big Nerdia, can you take her from me please?” and I did what any other wife of a hopelessly addicted-to-Warcraft husband would do: I ignored him and focused on my game of Solitaire.
I looked over a minute later and noticed poo sliding down his torso. I picked you up and whisked you away to clean you up. The funny thing is, I noticed the poop on him before he noticed the poop on himself. Bean, I REALLY hope that you don’t inherit your father’s comically myopic observation skills.
This month you learned to reach your hands out for me when you want to be in my arms. It’s an incredibly tender gesture, and I adore every time that you do it. It seems, little one, that you have forgiven me for letting you cry it out at night to teach yourself to sleep through the night WITHOUT A BINKY, BECAUSE WE’RE NAZIS.
Back in the bygone days of my childless life, my similarly childless friend and I would laugh at how ridiculous parents are about coddling their babies, and why can’t they just get over it and let the child cry? I wish I could meet pre-child Jen and slap her a good one across the mouth.
We made the decision that my sanity was being affected by not having a decent night’s sleep since, oh, my fourth month of pregnancy, and we agreed that you were going to have to sleep through the night before I needed restraints and anti-psychotics. It was three nights of sheer scrape-the-skin-off-my-eyeballs horror. The screaming and the hiccuping and the flying snot were horrible. And that was just me. After three days, though, you were sleeping a good eight hours at a go, and as of now you’re at about ten hours. I think it’s a good thing that at this stage in your life you have the memory of a striped bass, because you won’t remember crying yourself hoarse and crying so hard that you barfed in the crib (multiple times!) I will remember, and, while it was the one of the hardest things I’ve done, a good chunk of uninterrupted sleep is sooooooo marvelously delicious.
You have a solid nap and bedtime routine, and you do the cutest thing when we put you down. We put you in your crib, and hand you your Lovey. You hug him tight to your body and smile at him like you haven’t seen him in years, and then you roll over and fall asleep almost instantly. You get that from your father. That man can fall asleep in twenty seconds.
Your motor skills are improving all the time. You can sit unassisted for about twenty seconds or so, and you are getting pretty good about picking up Cheerios with your thumb and index finger. I always sprinkle a few Cheerios on your high chair tray for you to fidget with while I’m getting your food ready. You pick them up, but can’t manage to hang onto them for very long. The lining of the high chair has become known as The Tomb of the Unknown Cheerio, since slobbery, nameless bits of puffed oats go there to die. Unless, of course, they fall into your diaper: then it’s a real shocker for the next person who changes you.
You babble all the time now. Nothing resembling mama or dada, but you have your piece to say all the same. For now, it’s cute. When you’re thirteen and yakking constantly on the phone, I might revise that statement.
I love you Bean, and if you like dropping cereal in your pants, that’s alright by me. Just don’t plan on running for public office if you choose to continue it into your twenties.
I love you little Bean,
Mama
Posted by Jen at October 23, 2006 8:20 PM