Wow. There is something about the moment a baby can sit up unassisted that is pretty phenomenal. And I don’t mean that in an every-new-skill-you-acquire-is-phenomenal kind of way. Because truth be told, I am purposely not helping you learn to crawl. In fact, I sort of stopped tummy time altogether. The other day, these moms (they’re American so I can spell it that way) were droning on and on about the studied connection between crawling and ability to read. Which annoys me on two levels. One, how can those two things possibly be related? Two, who cites studies?
So sitting up. It’s amazing. You’ve been doing it for a month and I still get such a kick out of it. I guess your languid lying-around months really had an impact on me. Now you sit there on your playmat or in the bath with approximately 100 toys in a semi-circle before you, and you just RULE the land. The Ikea stacking cups are your favorite (note to self: spend less on toys) but you don’t discriminate. If a sock ends up in the pile, fair game. This makes you independent and it makes me realize what a happy baby you are. Content to self-entertain but you’re always sort of keeping track of me on the periphery. I like that, my son. We have our eye on one another.
I guess the other momentous change is that we moved your cot/crib out of our bedroom. We did that sometime in the past couple weeks and the moment we did it marked the first ever night of your life when I didn’t sleep in the same room as you. I cried as I carried the stupid crib from our room to yours. It was such a precious feeling to fall asleep each night just paces from you. To steal you away to our bed in the early morning so that we could feel your little hands reaching all around for us, smell your sweet breath next to our heads on the pillow. But you know, in the end I hope we have all adjusted quite nicely. I am not unhappy (I like double negatives, Jonah) to have my room back in the evenings to put things away, read in bed, stare at the extra few feet of floor. And I am pretty sure you are happy to be in a truly quiet space. I love that at last you have claimed your room.
It’s hard to really articulate the nuanced and yet dramatic way in which I think you have changed. All I know is that I am pretty sure every day I think you are the most fun person ever, even more than the day before. Let’s just see if I say that when you’re crawling. I doubt it.
We celebrated the winter holidays and passed into a new year. We traveled more and tomorrow it continues. You and I board a plane to the U.S. Once again. Adventure-seekers. Your grandparents are counting the seconds until they see you. As they should. Because you are a smiley, hysterical laughing, sweet smelling, animal sound-loving, humming-while-eating 21+ pounds of the purest form of love and happiness I know. With the belly of Buddha, legs like turkey drumsticks, fat rolls for saving bits of food for later, tiny little sharp fingernails you inherited from your daddy, a nose that invites all to have a peak, downy hair that is sill deciding what color it is, eyelashes engineered for learning how to butterfly kiss, blue blue eyes and that big, drooly, still gummy smile that totally, completely, utterly guts your daddy and me. In a good way. In the best way.
A few weeks ago your daddy looked at you, looked at me, and then said “I don’t want Joney to grow up.” It put a lump in my throat, and I asked him what he meant. “Because he’s my buddy. He laughs when I tickle him.”
So my Jonah, you have to always promise to be his buddy and to laugh at his jokes. And then we’ll let you grow up. Just the other day you started pushing your feet back and forth real hard when something made you happy. And if that’s what growing up means- new miraculous things you reveal every day- then we’re ready.