Archive | November, 2012

You, right now

20 Nov

Right now.

Your daddy calls you the girl with the golden hair. It’s finally begun to curl right up around your ears. It sends pangs of loss right to my heart to see my baby turn into a child before my eyes.

Strangers always marvel at your eyes.

“Those eyes. Those EYES,” an older Black lady said today as she passed you.

You love to wave at people and sometimes get so excited that both hands have to get in on the action.

Sometimes you open books and begin to speak gibberish like you’re actually reading.

If I look away from you for even a second you look at me and cock your head in my direction as if to say, “Um hello, don’t forget about me.”

You squeal with delight at the kitties. You squeal in delight at a lot of things. Sometimes it quite resembles shrieking in terror. You’re ambiguous like that.

The heart-shaped birthmark on your thigh is growing into something very unheart-like. I’m pretty sad to see it go.

You’re pulling yourself up to standing and getting up on all fours but you remain disinterested in crawling. You continue to remind me that patience is a virtue…and so is having a baby that can’t crawl before your house is babyproofed.

Your favorite toy is my wallet. You can get every single credit card, dollar bill and receipt out of it in seconds flat.

You are a ravenous eater, devouring everything from artichoke torta to shrimp and grits to plain yogurt. If I want to eat something in front of you I better well be prepared to share unless I want to witness a complete meltdown.

You nurse more or less constantly through the night. We need to fix this because my sleep deprivation is bordering on dangerous these days.

I have to keep careful track of what I give you to eat. You have been known to keep your fist clenched for hours around a tiny nugget of cheese without anyone (not even you) remembering it’s there.

You love music, especially “Bom Bom” by Sam and the Womp. As soon as I put on the music video you start bumping up and down excitedly.

You give hugs and big open-mouth kisses but only to me and Daddy. We feel very special.

Right now,

You are perfect.

 

 

 

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The Greenest Grass

13 Nov

Dear Ophelia,

It is nearly 10’oclock and you have been asleep for hours but tonight I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about how quickly you’ve become my favorite person, how I can’t look at pictures of you without grinning from ear to ear, how much you’ve brought your dad and me together and cemented us as a family. Sometimes I feel like these blog entries are getting redundant. I imagine you reading them one day and saying to me with a sigh, “Seriously, Mom? Couldn’t you think of anything else to write other than how much you love me?” Maybe I write it over and over because at times it’s a little difficult to process how deeply I love you. Maybe it’s difficult to fathom that I am even capable of being so consumed by my love for another person. Or maybe, and I think this is the big one, it’s that it is difficult to voice in any way just how much I have to lose. You represent not only the most precious thing in my life but the most precious thing in many people’s lives. Certainly in your dad’s, grandparents etc. And I am responsible for protecting you, loving you, teaching you, inspiring you and providing for you. Sometimes, just sometimes, it feels like a job that someone else would be better at.

Ophelia, you are amazing in so many ways. You are funny as hell, you are gregarious and charming, you are smart as a whip and you are deliriously beautiful. One thing you are not (at least at the time of this posting) is very physical. You turned 9 months old the other day and you are still not crawling. Truthfully, I’m not even sure you want to crawl. For the first six months of your life you would scream as if someone was sticking pins in you whenever we tried to give you some “tummy time”. To this day it is still not your favorite thing. When I took you in for your regular check up a few weeks ago the doctor said that although you are still within the normal range for crawling time, you should be able to get from your tummy to sitting position by now which you cannot yet do. I walked out of there feeling guilty as hell and determined to give you your prescribed 30 minutes of tummy time every day whether you liked it or not. And for the most part, that’s what we’ve been doing. And you’ve improved by leaps and bounds, scooting around the kitchen like a pro. My guilt, however, stubbornly remains. Not to mention the nagging urge to compare you to other children. And then of course I feel even more guilty for the comparison. And dear daughter, that comparison is a bitch. It is the thief of joy (to quote some wise person from Pinterest). I have decided for your sake and for mine, that I will not compare you to “the norm” any more. In the time that I’ve been dwelling on your less than stellar physical strength I have almost missed some of the precious and hilarious things you’ve been working on instead. The other day I noticed you opening up a book, staring at the pages and babbling a string of nonsense, as if you are actually reading. I’ve caught you doing this several times since. You’re brilliant. End of story. Then tonight you amazed me by reaching for the book over and over each time I asked “Ophelia, where is your book?” So you see, my darling, your mother has the tendency to be blinded by comparison. But I’m working on it. And I will make a promise to you now that by the time you are reading this, it will shock you beyond belief that I ever worried you were less than average.

Thank you for keeping me in check, sweetheart.

Love,

Mama