Levedy

7 Months

Bean-

In seven months, you’ve changed from a squalling lump of being into a squalling lump of being – with personality!

Actually, that’s not fair – you’re an EXTREMEMLY well-tempered child, as evidenced by your first Thanksgiving with the Greek side of the family, where you were kept up WAY past your bedtime and held, jiggled, and cooed at by approximately one hundred and seventy two Mediterraneans and never lost your smile. You go girl. Politics may be in your future.

This Thanksgiving I snapped a picture of you being held by your Daddy’s Pappou. I don’t know that he’ll be around long enough for you to grow enough to remember him, although I certainly hope he is. He’s a nice man, and you’d benefit from knowing him. While Pappou held you, and you kept at your primary mission of gathering reconnaissance on his huge nose, I couldn’t help but wish that my grandfather was still around to meet you. I miss him, Bean, and I wish that you could have known him. I know that he would have been tickled pink to have such a faboo great-granddaughter to spoil and force soggy Corn Flakes on.

You eat a stunning variety of foods, more than I do now, let alone in my picky, picky childhood. I remember my mother begging me to eat, bribing me with trips to Disneyland and ponies made of starlight if I would just. eat. one. more. bite. As of now, you eat (in some mashed form or another):

Apples
Apricots
Avocado
Bananas
Blueberries
Broccoli
Brown rice
Carrots
Cheerios
Chicken
Green beans (under duress)
Oatmeal
Peaches
Pears
Peas
Plums
Potatoes
Prunes (albeit unwillingly)
Raspberries
Rice
Squash
Strawberries
Sweet potato
Turkey
Zucchini

And whatever else your YiaYia sneaks to you off her plate when I’m not looking. Even with such a wide variety of food available to you, you prefer barley: plain, dumb barley. It looks and smells like wet newspaper, and you can’t get enough of it. I don’t get it.

One thing that you don’t get anymore is breast milk. You and I made the decision to stop breastfeeding this month. It was hard for me, but you don’t seem to care. You love that bottle, and love slapping my hands away so you can hold it yourself.

I thought that weaning you would put a damper on the closeness that I felt while nursing you. Surprisingly, the opposite turned out to be true. Bottle feeding you gives me something that I never had while nursing you: the ability to cradle you close to me, nuzzle you, and kiss the top of your head. It's incredible.

You have probably inherited my family’s propensity for Macy’s Thanksgiving Float-sized boobs. I’m really sorry, Bean. Breastfeeding you mainly consisted of my laying you on the ground and standing over you trying to get nipple A into mouth B. A lot of the time I felt like the claw machine in the arcade. But now, I can hold you closer to me then I ever could while nursing you, and I really love it. I don’t like your stinky formula burps, but at the end of the day, I think it’s a fair trade.

You’re a clever little girl, and have figured out several ways to make my hair a little grayer. Just to be clear: taking off your own diaper when it’s filled with poop is hereby considered NOT FUNNY.

You started crawling on Thanksgiving weekend. You haven’t mastered it yet, but it’s only a matter of time before you’re making yourself naked and galloping through the house au-natural. Who says that you don’t take after me?*

Your babbling is wonderful, and you say something that sounds like “Hi!” whenever dad or I come into the room. I know that you’re not really talking, but a mom can dream. You also discovered the cat this month: you figured out that she’s not just occasionally-moving furniture. You mimic your father calling for her, and shriek with laughter when she meows in response. I love hearing the two of you: “Ruuuuby”…”Ooooooey” Unfortunately, the cat is NOT amused. She, too, has figured out that you are not occasionally screaming furniture, and is not enthused by the prospect of your pending mobility and fascination with her. There’s paranoia brewing between those fuzzy ears.

You love the sensation of falling, which coincides with my love of dropping you. (KIDDING, MOM and SOPHIE. KIDDING!) You love to be thrown, tossed, and swung. You’ll be glued to roller coasters, I just know it. (Again! Again! Teacups AGAIN mommy!)

You’re the love of my life, and I’ll ride the teacups fifty times if it makes you happy. Okay, forty-nine.

I love you Bean.

Love,

Mama

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*I apologize to the Junior-High aged Bean who just read that sentence and cringed.

Posted by Jen at December 3, 2006 10:02 AM