Little One! The day is here! You are a big, huge, grown-up three whole months old! Everyone said it would get easier (well, your friend Sarah said it would get easier) and IT DID! You are now a head-holding-up, smiling, Seth-Rogen-laughing, hand-grabbing, five-hours-straight-sleeping little baby babby, and FOR NOW, the days of Thunderdome are over.
Yes, it still takes you on average 2.5 hours to be put to bed, and your previous preference for your dad walking you gently around the kitchen whistling your favorite three-note song he made up has given way to your new preference for being put in the sling (oh, the sling; more on that in a second) and walked around for half an hour outside. It’s a good thing that the weather has gotten better, little one.
You have gone from loving your stroller to refusing to tolerate your stroller (you make your dad pick you up and carry you with one hand and operate the stroller with the other, something I am physically incapable of doing, a fact I learned when you were about five weeks old and I got cocky and went to Starbucks and then spilled a scalding-hot Decaf Americano all over my hands for the entire walk back home), to once again enjoying your stroller, IFF you are able to look up at us whilst strolling AND play with Freddie Firefly, your best friend.
You are still enthralled by your shapes. If anything, your love for shapes has grown with your field of vision. Your Papa jokes that if you put out a personal ad, all it would say is BABBY SEEKS SAME, MUST LOVE SHAPES. Like, for us, your parents who give you everything and cater to your every tiniest whim, you often muster a sweet little smile at the beginning of the day (if it is one of the days when you are not understandably upset at making the transition from asleep to awake). But for your shapes? For SHAPEYS? Giant, whole-fat-face-taken-over-by-your-maw style grin. If only anyone loved me as much as you love your shapeys, my dear.
You are still obsessed with being a bigger, older baby than you are. Not only do you prefer the “hip hold” in your brand-new Dr. Sears sling (making our baby-carrying accouterments total something like $500 worth of crap, all to “babywear” you like our “ancestors” did in “nature”), which is for six-month-olds, you also prefer to be propped up into a sitting position in your Boppy (another $40, god I hate myself so much), like a big fat half-year-old grown-up. I guess it makes sense, since you weigh as much as many 9-month-olds do, and — despite your average height — are already wearing some 9-month-old clothes, due to your very not-average width (at your 2-month checkup you clocked in at the 92nd percentile in weight).
This girth you have managed despite your new extremely picky eating habits. For your first two months alive, I could not make enough milk to sate your fat ass. You would pop off in the middle of nursing with this heartrending tiny little whimper, like, Mama, I’m so hungry, why have you forsaken me? This was especially trying during growth spurts, which you usually have every week and a half or so. And then, suddenly, my boobs got the message, and started making HELLA MILK up in this domicile. I wake up most mornings painfully engorged and leaking now; the other night I actually let down in my sleep when you weren’t latched on and woke up in a puddle and I was like OH GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME. This new turn of events would be spectacular if a) it didn’t cause what they call a “forceful letdown,” otherwise known as “fire hydrant titties,” in which you happily latch on only to choke and sputter and pop off crying in frustration ONCE AGAIN; and b) if you had not recently decided to stop taking the bottle (at a VERY inopportune time when I was out of the house redeeming a massive massage-spa gift certif your Crazy Uncle Jacob gave us). Before I was lucky to pump a teaspoon sometimes. Now I regularly freeze six ounces a day — which is as much as SOME babbys (NOT YOU) eat in an entire day, bee-tee-dubs — and I am pretty sure I’m going to end up donating it all to the breast milk bank (or selling it to a bodybuilder; just kidding, gross). I mean, there are worse things than donating to a breast milk bank, obviously, but it’s just another Thing that you have developed.
You love to be outside. We take about eight walks a day at this point (at least two each in all of your different ridiculously overpriced methods of conveyance: stroller, TWO DIFFERENT ERGOS , sling), and the sense of peace and rightness on your chubby little visage as you look around at the trees with your big eyes is palpable and humbling. The sight of you all chunked up in your sling is the delight of the neighborhood, bringing a smile to folks young and old, and especially to the employees of the cookie store down the street, which I visit on a near-daily basis (thanks to your still-rather-robust appetite, I may be their only regular customer who is still losing weight).
You are allowing me, slowly but surely, to return to full humanity. I’ve been writing every day (always during your naps, which, though irregular, often afford me uninterrupted computer time — you are plunked on my chest as I type this, my face in your blonde little curls, made a bit greasy yesterday by the treatment we gave you in the bath for your rather gnarly cradle cap), and will have even more pieces appear in Slate and the Chronicle soon. AND, you’ll be happy to know that yesterday I spent $22 on a tube of “vintage color” red lipstick, which is sort of like the first day I drank coffee again after I had pneumonia in 2012. Like, the ginger ale meant I was human again, but the coffee meant I was BACK. The fact that I can now shower while you’re next to the bathroom in your swingy chair means I’m human again, but the red lipstick means I’m BACK. Sort of. I also bought some Pajama Jeans with no sense of irony, and I love them so much (and do, indeed, both sleep in them and wear them all day) that for summer I just ordered a pair of Pajama Jorts. #NOSHAME
You have recently started tolerating being read to, and your favorite books are Hippos Go Berzerk and Owl Babies (which I, of course, read to you as Owl Babbys). The moral of Owl Babbys is that Mama will always, always come home, and it’s something I want you to remember every second of the day. Especially when I’ve had to put you in your sidecar (the bedside bassinet you have never, ever slept in) for five minutes while I go to the bathroom and you start to whimper (you almost never cry full-volume anymore), I hope you will remember that Mama has never really left you. EVEN IF SHE IS GONE TO GET A MASSAGE and the massage therapist is like, “There’s no nice way to put this; you have the tensest back I have ever worked with,” and she’s out of the house for two whole hours, there’s no need to snub the bottle of milk because Mama will always, always, always come home. Unless you start butt-blasting multiple times a night again, in which case you’re getting sold to the circus.