Eight, nine, ten, eleven months

Dear Fife,
 
Can I say that maybe I don't write about you as much because I'm too busy enjoying you? I think it's at least partly true; I find myself enjoying your babyhood more than I have in the past. It's also just that three kids and a bigger job keeps you busy in general. Sometimes I start a draft for your monthiversary but don't get far enough to publish, but in any case I make lists in my head as the months go by.

So now you are almost a year old; before that happens I will add to my fragmented unpublished notes [in italics] and look at the pictures and try to remember.

Eleven months:
This is now! For a few more days. At some point over the last several months you learned to say more words: In addition to Mama, we have Dada, Ca for Cat and Kiss, Dah! for dog, and sometimes Ba or Nana for Banana. Also, the milk sign with one fist and two, as the situation calls for. Still scooting, much faster, and now standing for very short bursts; I don't think crawling is in the cards. I finally started putting your hair up in a ponytail to get it out of your face; with that, your round cheeks and your sticking out ears, two separate people have compared you lovingly to a baby troll (I hope when you grow up you think that's as funny as we do).

You love the cold water from the pool or a lake, or especially the Jamison Fountain, but you can't stand the bath. Also, shoes--you can't stand shoes.

Ten months:
[At ten months you love to feed yourself. You devour whole bananas that I've partially peeled (and if I take my eyes off you sometimes you also devour part of the peel in your haste--it's not uncommon to find you happily diving into the banana from the side). You gnawed on ribs for the Fourth of July]; you love fists full of sweet potato or sticky rice. Also slices of peach, mango seeds with a circle of flesh, and anything you see on your brother or sister's plate.

Nine months:
I wrote nothing down about this month but I'll tell you clearly what the best thing was: you started cocking your head to the side, looking for a new take on the world. You'd turn it very severely and look at us and smile, and then one day Lucy said that it was just your superpower--that when you cocked your head to the side you could see everyone's weaknesses. And just like that your smile seemed more knowing, and we were glad you couldn't tell us what you saw.

I think this was also the month when you also started scooting, first dragging your legs around like they were dead weight, then at some point realizing that they might do a little pushing too. 

Eight months: 
[Eight months finds you screaming, shrieking at the top of your lungs.] This shrieking went on for awhile. It was a a preview for us, opening a window into what you like when you aren't willing to go with the flow. Which mostly you still are, you are a lovely and flexible third child, except when you want something you want it NOW and you want ONLY that thing and woe unto us if we don't know what it is.


We love you so much baby Fife, almost a baby no more!

Love,
Mama

seven months

 Dear Fife,

Before you turn eight months I have to write this down. There is one thing in particular I want to remember about you at seven months: One day, when I was nursing you before bed, you finished eating and turned your head down instead of up, burying your face in the crook of my elbow. Your dad came in and you raised your head like a person woken from deep concentration; you looked at him and smiled, then went back to where you were. Oscar and Lucy came in at one point, jumping on the bed and laughing. You looked up, then went back to your place.

I didn't move, I didn't want to break the moment. You stayed like that for a long time, at least 20 minutes, just quietly snuggling into my arm.

Love,
Mama

four

Dear Oscar,
I love you at four.

Your birthday party request was for hamburgers at Nana and Papa's house; your guest list included Lucy, TT, me, and Daddy. You asked for a cake with white frosting, piled high with berries, just like the one I made you last year. You wanted chocolate cake for Lucy, and white cake for Teagan, because she doesn't like chocolate cake.

For presents you had your eye on a toy airplane you spotted at Powell's months ago; you also got pink shoes, trains and a train track, a book of silly stories and a book about polar bears, a tiny polar bear and tiny seal, a box of model magic, and a box of juice.

On the way home from Nana and Papa's I asked you if you had a good birthday; you said it was just exactly what you had expected. You didn't really smile when you said it, but I think that was a good thing.

You are sweet in a really natural way, with no effort, like there is no other way to be. You don't play with our hair as much as you used to, but you still love to snuggle.  Every night I give you a magic Eskimo kiss before you fall asleep. You started preschool a couple of months ago and are still easing in, but we had a conference with the teachers where they talked about you and told us some stories, like this one:

A classic preschool game involves making food, offering it to a teacher, the teacher "eats" it and then the child exclaims gleefully that it is actually poisonous. Oscar enjoys the humor of this game and will play along. However, the connection with the other person is the most important aspect for him--if I say that I've learned my lesson and will not eat any more of his poisonous ice cream, he will become very sincere. He says, 'There's no poison. I'm not going to trick you."

 As much as you are starting to like preschool, playing with Lucy or Lucy and Luca or Lucy and Teagan is still your favorite. You would follow Lucy anywhere, and often wait to make your choices until you see what she is choosing.

Sometimes you guys request a record then dance in a circle around the living room, laughing and running until you fall down. It reminds me of something my brother and I used to do at my grandparents' house, and it makes me feel really happy to be a parent.

I love you!

Love,
Mama

six months

Dear Filomena,

You turned six months in Hawaii, land of the clearing-up-eczema and ever-present mangoes. This is you at six months:

• You flip over in your crib onto your stomach, but you can't get back on your back. Sometimes you cry for help, sometimes you just go back to sleep.
• You like every food we have given you so far, including banana, sweet potato, mango, avocado, white beans, black beans, and kale.
• You growl like a pirate (see "mama" video for evidence), but the pirate talk is already starting to give way to shrieking when we are too slow to give you what you want.
• Your ears, your ears!
• You give us all kisses, all the time, grabbing whatever you can hold and pulling our faces close to your wide-open mouth.
• You chew on everything but you still have no teeth.
• Your sister makes you laugh when she gives you finger guns and a goofy smile, or when she climbs up the doorways.
• Your brother makes you laugh when he pounds your stomach like a drum.

We love you bunches!

Love,
Mama

five months

Dear Fife,

Three and four months went by without a word from me here, sorry, but there were plenty of words in your ears. And now, five months! Five months has you growling like a pirate, and giggling like a sweet little girl. Oscar calls you "our squirrel friend" and "cutie mootie" and hasn't stopped smothering you with snuggles, but you rarely mind. Lucy plies you with finger guns and jumping jacks; your face lights up whenever she comes around.

Also when Daddy walks into the room, or me; you have a fabulous open-mouthed smile that involves your cheeks and your eyes and a whole lot of tongue. And often growling, as I think I mentioned. I looked this up on the internet today, "my five-month old growls like a pirate," and wouldn't you know there was a whole community of mothers saying the same thing. One said her daughter growled so much she considered throwing her a pirate-themed birthday party when she turned one, which I am now putting on my list of things to maybe do.

You're sitting up for brief snippets of time now; you grab your feet now and roll side to side, but you haven't made it all the way over just yet. We fed you some bananas this week; you thought they were pretty good.

You love the water--we took you to the pool for the first time last weekend and you had a really good time. You splashed and floated on my shoulder, turning your head to feel the water in your eyes.

You're a fun one to have around!

We love you,
Mama

three years, 7 months

Dear Oscar,

You sailed past three and a half in October, a big brother now but still almost exclusively wearing costumes and pajamas as everyday clothes. You love bats and fruit and books about superheroes; you are tall and stubborn and often frustrated and very very sweet.

Being newly in the middle is hard--you're not the oldest, and you're not the youngest; you're not big enough to do everything Lucy does but you're too big to get everything Filomena gets. It has been a bit of a rough few months with you: you have trouble not whining about even the smallest things, like asking for an apple or for a place on the couch, and I think you must be growing because your coordination is off--you keep slipping on things, or running into things, or falling down when you're practically standing still.

Yesterday we were sitting on the couch playing with baby Fife and I told you how big you're getting, and reminded you how you said when the baby was born you would not only be a big brother, you would be BIG. Your face crumpled and your eyes got tears and you said in a very quiet voice, I want to go back to being the little baby.

But you are such a good big brother. You love to snuggle her and kiss her; you bounce gently on the bed next to her and make her smile. In the car when the baby cries you sing to her, and you tell Lucy, I'm taking care of this.

After a slow start language has really blossomed for you lately, but you still usually need a little time to get your thoughts out, and you have your own way of pronouncing a lot of things. You get mad when Lucy interrupts you, or when we don't understand what you say, both of which happen relatively often. You say "Mom" a lot in your thinking pauses; sometimes it drives me crazy. You also tell us you love us a lot, just little asides throughout the day. Mom . . . . Mom . . . Mom . . . I love you. When I tuck you in to bed you reach up and touch my face.


Before you knew many words we used a few hand signs to talk to each other. There weren't many signs--there was milk, more, fan, banana, and I love you. Milk is a squeezing motion; fan is just a finger going in circles; banana is one hand peeling the finger of another. At one point Lucy made up a sign for infinity that followed after I love you--it was hands twirling around each other like a wheel. In the mornings when I would leave for the gym, I had to wait outside while you and Lucy climbed the back of the couch to look out the window and sign that you loved me, and I would sign that I loved you back. In your excitement your signs would sometimes get sweetly muddled and it always sticks in my mind--little you standing in the window, blowing me kisses, hands twirling and fingers catching together, signing about bananas and infinite love.

I love you, my love.

Love,
Mama

two months

Dear Fife,

Two months! That means my maternity leave is three-fourths over; in a week we head to Virginia to celebrate Thanksgiving and when we come back I go back to work. I'm not really dreading it; we've had some good time together and working from home makes things pretty easy, plus I'll only have two full weeks and two partial weeks until Christmas, so it should make for a good easing in.

As I suspected at the end of last month, just when you began to get a little bit boring you started smiling at us and we got excited about you all over again. The kids still fight over who you are looking at more, and it's all the more desperate now because of the smiles; you and Lucy have long conversations and Oscar gives you endless kisses all over your face.

After your behemoth start in life you have slowed down considerably: at your two month check-up you were 12lbs, 4.5 oz (75th percentile). The doctor says you are probably just finding your proper place on the chart. Like your brother and sister, you remain extremely tall: 25 inches puts you into what they call the 100th percentile, which I'm still pretty sure is impossible, but I take it to mean that at the moment you are the tallest 2-month-old in the entire world.

We all really like you. You are still so nice to hold, just really the perfect heft. Your long hair is styling itself into a wavy mohawk in the new Fall rain. You fall asleep for the night between 7 and 8, just like your brother and sister, giving us a few lovely hours every evening to just be grownups. Everyone that holds you says you smell really good.

It's true, you really do.

Love,
Mama

one month

Dear little Fife,

You have been here for one month now. You are cheeks and hair and mouth and toes. And thighs! With thigh rolls! You are the first of my babies to not need a bili-blanket for jaundice; you are the last of my babies.

Your siblings fight daily over who you look at more, smothering you with kisses and trying to teach you everything: how to smile, how to grab things, how to open your mouth wide for mama milk. It took them a whole month to realize that you (and all babies) are actually kind of boring, in that you can't really do anything with them yet. We are all excited for you to grow.

For me it has been a month of soft hair and warm breath--I waited so long for you to actually arrive, and now that you're here I just feel relaxed. You are nice to hold, you are nice to feed, you are nice to rock and sing to. Not overwhelmed by the particulars I am instead in awe of the universal, of the fact of human development: that you didn't exist at all, and then you did, and then you grew into something recognizably human, all invisibly inside my body, all in the space of nine months.

We call you by lots of nicknames, trying things out to see what fits:

• Fife
• Fifey
• Fifer
• Fifignewton
• Fifelina (e.g. Royal Tenenbaum: "Where's my Fifelina?")
• Filomena Halloweena
• Fillyjonk
• Fifearoo
• Electric Fiferella

We have also been looking for a suitable animal nickname, to go with Goose and Ox. Before you were born we were leaning toward Birdy, after a game that Oscar liked to play while I was pregnant, but then you were actually born and there was nothing remotely bird-like about you. The midwife at your birth suggested Moose, given your impressive size, but it didn't take. I am pulling for Bobcat (we saw one at the high desert museum, and it was cuddly like a house cat but much larger), but I seem to be the only one.

Maybe we'll have one by next month.

We love you so much!

Love,
Mama

two years

Hello, Ox.

You turned two a week ago*, no sickness, no teething, all smiles and balloons. I made you a cake with red berries piled on top and you kept grabbing the berries off of everyone else's slices.

You have finally started to talk, we tallied the other day and counted just over 25 words which was more than I would have guessed. Ball, balloon, bird, and boots are your favorites; they are also four of your favorite things. Other favorite things include: owls, giraffes, airplanes, and for the moment, especially cats (which you call "meeeeeeooooooow"). Also group hugs: when we went to your 2-year checkup, during the period of waiting between the doctor and the nurse who follows up with the shots, we were sitting on the bench and you hugged me, then reached over for Lucy with your right arm, then for Daddy with your left.

You love to snuggle when you first wake up, still burrowing your face into my neck, still running your fingers through my hair like you've done since you were so little.

You like to cook with me in the kitchen, especially peeling garlic, ripping kale leaves off their stems, and pushing the on button of the food processor.

You have discovered that Lucy can draw things for you, and you hand her paper and make a request: owl, bird, giraffe, airplane. And again, most recently: cat. For the most part she loves to do it, and you both have quite a bit of fun that way.

You are an Aries, which I don't think about much except that our neighbor (who is also an Aries) mentioned, when you were just learning to walk, that she had read a book about how different star signs lead with different body parts when they move. Aries are headstrong, and they lead with their heads. At the time you were very much leading with your belly in a lopsided rumble, so I thought it wasn't true, but now, everywhere you go is running, and I think about it all the time. I watch you running down the sidewalk, head forward, leading your body by several inches; blonde hair shaped by the last haircut I gave you flapping like a little shelf in the wind.

You're growing! Happy Two!

I love you, Oscar.

Love,
Mama.


*Now two and a half weeks.

twenty-one months

Dear Oscar,

You are getting older, you want to do everything by yourself. It takes awhile. You must unzip your own pajamas, you must find your toes hiding in your pant legs and pull them up over the hump of your diaper ALL BY YOURSELF. You are so proud.

You eat your tacos in taco-form, no longer meat and beans on a plate like your sister but wrapped up in a tiny tortilla, held together by sour cream. You ate four tacos in this way the other night, the same number as me.

You are so sweet and loving, you have endless hugs and kisses and pats for all of us. You got a new lovey for Christmas, a tiny soft lion with a silky mane, and you loved it immediately. You make the lion give everyone kisses, including the elephant heads on the living room lamp. You love to make Lion ride on one of our many stuffed giraffes, and you laugh. You take Lion everywhere, even outside the house where we never let Lucy take her lamb, and when you are looking for lion you make a shape with your mouth that is like saying "la la la" without any sound. We all know exactly what you mean.

You use your teeth when you don't get your way quickly enough. You've bitten Lucy and Teagan and me and Daddy, and you tried to bite Luca but I caught you because now we know what to look for.

We were playing the other day when Lucy observed: "You know, Oscar is a little bit savage."

Just a little bit, my boy, just a little bit.

Love,
Your mama

twenty months

Oh my goodness, Oscar man. Those cheeks just keep getting cuter and cuter. They turn red when you smear your face with strawberries, or hot capicollo, or spaghetti sauce; when you just wake up from a nap; when you are running and playing with Lucy just as happy as you can.

It was hot on the airplanes to Virginia and you would only sleep snuggled up in my sling so by the time we got to Richmond your cheeks were rosy to kingdom come, a heat rash in spite of the below-freezing weather. But Gramme and Grandpa couldn't get enough!

You've started babbling a lot more this month, trying out new sounds like "da da" and "lu lu" and maybe something like "la" for light" and "mo" for more. But you are still more comfortable with silent gestures, and the best right now is the way you nod when we ask the right questions. It's a nod where your head is fully engaged, your neck bends horizontally away from your body then your whole head shakes at once, not too quickly, but with vigor--it's a very appreciative gesture, like you've been waiting years for someone to understand you and you are so glad someone finally has.

Lucy gets this nod a lot.

You and Lulu are thick as thieves lately. You think all her inventions are remarkable; I hide things that you want in places you can't reach and she retrieves them for you when I'm not looking. Your biggest arguments are over me--specifically, my body, and where the invisible dividing line when you are both on my lap.

You like to give people kisses when they aren't expecting it. Sometimes they come in a cascading bunch of puckers, and the sweetness kills. Sometimes you reach out your arm in a sidehook to draw Lucy close and plant a big one right on her head. Sometimes you hit one of us just so you can kiss it better. We're working on that.

 Papa took you to your first barber shop this week so already the long-haired boy in the picture above is gone, but the smile and the cheeks and the ever-knowing brow remain.

Happy 20 months, love!

Love,
Your Mama

eighteen months

Dear Oscar,
Eighteen months came on the day of our neighbors' annual pumpkin picking event, same as six months did last year.

You are getting bigger and bigger, and our friends who haven't seen you in awhile are surprised about what a full-on little boy you are.

What you do:
Run
Follow your sister everywhere
Snuggle
Tackle-snuggle
Throw balls and chase them
Kick balls and chase them
Try to volley balls with a miniature lacrosse stick
Climb up on the bed and ask to be tickled
Corner us with sticks and say "Roar!"

What you say:
Mama
Roar
Other people variously claim to have heard you say Nana and up; I have at times thought I heard something resembling more and milk, but nothing I would stake any money on.

What you sign:
Milk
More
Fan
Banana
All done

What you love to eat:
Bananas
Spaghetti
Strawberries
Frozen raspberries
Frozen peaches
Apples
Smoothies
Sunbutter honey sandwiches
Feta cheese
Tacos

When you go out walking with your dad, people can't stop talking about how much you look alike ("the same hair!" "the same smile!") and he comes back from wherever you were completely glowing.

When you snuggle on my lap, you point to a spot on my forehead where you and I bonked heads about a month ago, and you push my hair aside, and point to my forehead again, then you put your cheek against that spot and give me a very sweet hug.

I love you, little Ox.

Love,
Mama

four years

Dear Lucy,

Your fourth birthday was almost a month ago, and I owe you a letter. I think it has taken me so long because though I stare at you and stare at you I have no way to sum you up. You are a barrage of in-the-momentness, of sweet hugs and desperate cries and scraped knees and elated feats of physicality, you sit as close to me as you possibly and you retreat to your room for minutes (hours?) of sitting in bed imagining long stories to yourself. You are a whirlwind.

You have long-considered and evocative ways of telling me you love me (“Pretend that I’m your baby superhero, and I shoot rose petals. I shoot gold rose petals at the bad guys, and when I want to tell you I love you, I shoot pink rose petals at you.” Humming. “When I make this sound, it means I’m shooting rose petals at you.”), and of telling me that you’re mad (“I made something.” “Oh, cool! Is it little towers?”“No, it’s poop and pee. And it’s for you.”)

You have an artist's temperament I think, feeling everything so intensely; you also have an artist's eye for beauty and color and line. I have a stack of your pictures on my dresser; I've not really been one to hoard creations out of sentimentality, but so much of your art makes my eyes light up and I really need to get some picture frames.

One of your first words was "silly", and you still love silliness and rhyming and wordplay and nonsense. Also, singing.

You ad libbed a song today at lunch called "Sad but True". It seemed to start out with things that really were sad but true, or at least might be, and filled in with the refrain:

I can't climb to the top of the monkey bars
Sad but true, sad but true
There is no food in my house
Sad but true, sad but true
There are no more tacos
Sad but true, sad but true
All the food is on the floor
Sad but true, sad but true

But by the end of the song ever sadder things were happening, and you were an orphan (sad but true, sad but true). When I pressed you on this, you said the song was in fact true, but it was from the point of view of Oliver Twist.

Your daddy asked you what you would be if you were in a band--the singer? No, you said, I want to be the dancer!

I love you, Baby Everything.

Love,
Mama

fifteen months

Dear Ox,
The other day I got it into my head that you needed a haircut, so every time you sat in your high chair I would sneak behind you with my scissors and take small clips. You would hear the noise of the cut and turn your head, but then I would distract you with yogurt. I was a speedy haircut ninja and by the end of the day I think it looked pretty good.

With the summer sun your hair has gotten blonder and blonder and redder too so that you look more and more like your daddy's baby pictures and then one day I looked at you and realized that I do have a blonde child after all.

You finally started walking about a month ago and now you squawk and laugh as you chase Lucy all over the house. There is a small plastic slide in front of our house that all the neighborhood kids love and you climb unassisted up the ladder, then slide unassisted all the way down. You want to climb on anything that moves and you're already showing more interest in your sister's balance bike than she ever has.

When I come up from working in the basement you run toward me with your arms pointed straight out for a hug. Esme saw you and said, "Oscar is really happy to see you." Your hugs are still a burrowing snuggle into the side of the neck. Just this week you learned to give me a puckering smack of a kiss, right on the lips.

You love me so much!

You also love to eat, eat, eat. Most things, really, but especially fruit, which is so fun because I've always wanted a baby who loves fruit. It also means that you and Lucy make a great berry picking team--she picks the berries off the bushes, and you devour them. We have two strawberry plants in the garden, and the berries rarely have time to get all the way red.

You're nowhere close to talking, but you picked up a sign: milk. For the rest of the things that you want, you communicate with pointing and a very assertive yell.

You love to fit things together (bubble wands, screw-top lids), to put things where they go (shoes, water bottles), and to throw almost anything. You love to play with the kids in the neighborhood, who sometimes fight over who knows what you want most  and who can make you laugh first. It's usually a short fight.

You glare at strangers, ducking under your second brow muscle as though it's a hood, but you have endless toothy smiles for the ones you love.

I love you! Happy fifteen months.

Love,
Mama

one year

Dear Ox,

Today you turned one year old. When you and I got up this morning, I was staring at you on the couch thinking how a year ago at the same time your daddy was on the phone with a midwife trying to figure out what hospital had enough room to take me so you could get born. You weren't waiting.

And now, you are a whole year old, thoroughly here, thoroughly adored.

We had a small party for you today, just me and your dad and Lucy and Nana and Papa and Titi. You wore two different pairs of corduroy overalls because your clothes kept getting covered in mandarin juice, and later in frosting. You were very interested in your visitors, and less interested in your presents, though a big wooden puzzle and later a tool set got a warm reception.

Your cupcake was a hit.

For me this last year has been so much less hard than the first year of your sister's life: you have such an easy way about you, and I know what I'm doing, and I don't worry about all the ways in which I might be breaking you, or in which you might be breaking without me noticing.

You have special radar for cords, which you firmly believe are strings to something wonderful.

You are not in a hurry about life.

You are sweet, adventurous, agile, mischievous; you love to snuggle and kiss and eat and climb and your sister cracks you up.

And I love you very, very, very, very, very, very much.

Happy birthday!

Love,
Mama

eleven months

Dear Oscar,

Yesterday was three-thirteen-thirteen, and you were eleven months old.

When you wake up in the morning and I take you out of your crib, I sing you a good morning song:

Good morning, good morning, my tiny baby boy
Good morning, good morning, your face is full of joy
I want to hug you oh so much
I want to give you lots of love
Good morning! Good morning!

Your sister likes the song, and has adapted it into her own version which she serenades you with when you cry in the car. Her lyrics are always changing, but I’ve caught snippets of “your face is full of happiness” and “your face is full of sadness” and it makes me smile. It also makes you calm down, which also makes me smile.

This week we were all hanging out in the living room after dinner, and you were chasing Lucy around and she was laughing, and then the next thing we knew you were on the fourth stair up to the attic playroom. So now we have that to worry about.

I love you!

Love,
Mama

ten months

Hey, good lookin'!

Your tenth month was a sick one, with RSV-driven sniffles that descended into your bronchials and sat there, your sad eyes and sad cough and sad parents all wishing it would just go away. Which it did, eventually, after some time with the nebulizer, and a few steamy bathroom sessions, and a lot of snuggling, and a lot of tylenol, and some time.

Last weekend your daddy went to Virginia to see friends and family, and the rest of us decamped to Nana and Papa's house because I was afraid to go it alone. You didn't approve of the change--no crib, and no daddy--and you cried for long stretches in the middle of every night. Last night, back in your crib and with daddy home, you slept until morning. (Thankfully, because your sister tossed and turned and whimpered in her sleep all night.)

You still love to eat, and in the last week since you've started feeling better you're making up in volume for all the food you missed while you were sick. Beans and lentils are your favorite things so far, in various soup forms; you've also enjoyed strawberries, artichokes, chicken pot pie, peaches, pizza crust, clementines, orange slices, sunbutter, and cheerios. You're still loving applesauce with cinnamon, sweet potatoes, and bananas. You like things that are room temperature or slightly warmer, but not too hot or cold. You like things spiced with cumin.

You like to grab coffee mugs, cords, wall-socket protectors, the fireplace screen, cell phones, your sister's hair. You really, really, really want to climb the playroom stairs.

The two teeth on either side of your top front ones have been descending for what feels like weeks, but they're still only half way there. Your smile is a wide, open-mouth thing of pure delight.

You love your mama, and you love your daddy, and you love your sister. Lucy says you love her most of all.

Your daddy can't stop saying how handsome you are whenever he looks at you, and I keep staring into your eyes trying to figure out what color they are once and for all. I'm still undecided.

We love you so much!

Happy ten months, Buds McGuds.

Love,
Mama

forty-two months

Dear Lu,

The older you get the more I experience you through your own words. You rarely stop talking, to me, to Daddy, to yourself. You chastise me if I interrupt a story you're telling, but sometimes your imagining is so real that I think you're talking to me, and I respond.

You really love me. You crowd me with your body and you crowd me with your voice, and sometimes I look forward to going to the basement to work so I can have a chance to breathe. But then you'll be playing by yourself, pretending elaborate and fanciful things, and instead of luxuriating in a couch with only me on it, I spend my free time eavesdropping on you, sneaking kisses on the top of your head.

*          *         *         *         *         *           *         *     
We visited Erin in the hospital after she had her babies and you were so sweet, like I had coached you for hours. You said: Erin, your brand new babies are so cute! Erin, thank you for letting us see your babies! Then, while I was holding a twin: Erin, can I snuggle with you?

You let the grownups talk, you made Erin a crown of pipe cleaners and beads. You held a baby with delight, and when I said, Isn't Ramona lucky? She has two little brothers!, you said yes, and then quickly: Then I'm not lucky! I only have one brother.

You're quick to the draw.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

In Virginia at Gramme's house we were looking at a small photo book I made for her not long after you were born, all about you. You flipped to the picture of you and me and Nana and my Grandma, and said, Is this your Grandma that died? I said yes.

You looked at the picture, then your eyes got wide. But, doesn't Nana miss her mommy?

Yes, I said. She does.

Then, eyes wider still: But, are you going to die?

Well, everybody dies, but it probably won't be for a long time . . . 

But I don't want you to die!

Come sit with me, do you want to snuggle?

I don't want to read this book anymore.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

Before Christmas Nana came over to watch Oscar and Daddy and I took you to your first ever stage play: Peter Pan. You've been loving the Peter Pan story for awhile so when I saw that it was playing at a local children's theater I couldn't resist. I got us three seats right at the very front of the stage, not sure that you would tolerate watching from behind someone else's head.

You were rapt for the entire 90-minute performance. We had talked about staying quiet during the show, and for large swaths of time you had your fist over your mouth, ready to catch any excitement that might bubble up into sound. Your dad and I were rapt as well; sometimes we forsook the stage to watch your face. I'm pretty sure at various times we both teared up.

When intermission came you couldn't wait for the show to start again.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

You're very sensitive these days about being laughed at. We sometimes have misunderstandings because you make us laugh a lot, but mostly because you are surprising and delightful and silly, and not because we think you're ridiculous. But I remember feeling exactly that same way when I was a little: I knew enough of what was going on to participate in adult conversations, but was always hypersensitive that I was doing it wrong.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

There is a lot of playacting in our house: there's the story where we pretend you just came out of my belly; there's one where we pretend that I think you are just a sleeping bug but really you are a fairy with wings; there's one where we are two girls going camping, and we start out in a boat. We are often bears hiding in a cave, getting ready for winter; or people sleeping while the T-Rex steals our treasure box and then you have to go roar at him and rescue it.

There's Cinderella where you are my fairy godmother and you wrap me in beautiful dresses, and there are the two that we play most often, both from Peter Pan: you as Wendy, noticing strange leaves by your window, and me as Mrs. Darling; and me as Wendy, you as Tinkerbell, Oscar as Michael and Daddy as Peter Pan.

In the version where you are Tinkerbell you guide the story and feed Daddy all his lines. You change the parts that you don't like; for example, in your version Tink and Wendy are always fast friends, and Peter never gets mad at Tinkerbell. Also, Tinkerbell just dumps the poison out to protect Peter instead of drinking it, which really makes more sense anyway.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

Sometimes you mix an element of Rumplestiltskin into the Tinkerbell stories, and Wendy has to guess your name:

I'll give you a hint: It starts with a Bell, and a Tink.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

You love language. You love to play with words, and poems, and nonsense rhymes. I don't normally picture your future, I'm so content to just watch it unfold, but last week I imagined you older and in a poetry slam, and you were totally killing it.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

Wee winnie dolphin
The snow is like a coffin

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

When I look at you I recognize myself from old home videos, the way your hair goes all the way down your back, the way you throw your head back and laugh when you make a joke. The way you make up songs at the dinner table. Even in your inflection, in the way you put sentences together, I hear echoes of my own 4-year old self. When you tell me I only give Oscar love, I know exactly how you feel; I remember standing in the bathtub with my arms crossed, jealous of my mom playing with my brother, telling her she never gives me a turn, and feeling that to be the absolute truth.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *     

You love to put on records and dance circles around the rug with me, chasing and being chased.

Before I had any kids a woman I used to work with said she imagined my home life like this: Your dad and I, listening to records and dancing around and being silly in the living room. That wasn't far off, and on the best days, it still isn't.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *    

Sometimes you want my focused attention with such urgency that you say Mom! Mom! Mommy! again and again, even though we're in the same small space. I look at you, exasperated, I say, What, Love?

You are caught; you have my attention, but nothing to say. You pause.

Mama? I love ya.

*          *         *         *         *         *         *         *    

My favorite part of most days is the time we spend on the couch, after Oscar goes to bed and before you do. You choose a book or books and we snuggle up and read. You ask me questions about the story, about words in the story, about which words on the page are the words I am reading. We play games with rhyming, games with synonyms. We talk about the story. At Christmastime we were reading A Christmas Carol about Tiny Tim, and you said, That reminds me of another boy with a bad life, and you went to the bookshelf and pulled out Oliver Twist. I love these conversations with you.

While we read, you wiggle your body, too hot, too cold, trying to get comfortable, balancing your bottom on my knee, your back on my thigh, trying to get closer and closer to me, scooting up so your cheek is pressed against mine.

Sometimes I hug you so close and you tell me to hug less tightly, because you are too hot.

So living with you at three and a half is like this: Sometimes I am nearly crushed, and sometimes I can't squeeze you tight enough.

I love ya, Lu.

Love,
Mama

eight months

Dear Oscar,

Three days ago you woke up from a nap with a trickle of blood trailing from between your eyes down the ridge of your nose. You were unperturbed, but I wasn't, so I had your daddy take a photo. I thought: Is this foreshadowing? I could see the photo series rolling out in front of me, blood running down your face and you undaunted, one photo for every year of your life. Is this what it means to be a boy?

I've been thinking about gender stereotypes, about the things we do that might etch in "boy" or "girl" early in life. Your grandpa has been calling you Ox since almost the day after you were born, so I guess if we were planning to go for relative gender neutrality we missed the boat anyway. On the other hand, we did put you in pink princess pajamas once, and you rocked them like David Bowie.

Eight months has you more and more interested in moving, and more frustrated when you can't. You can push yourself backwards across the floor, slowly, and sit for very long periods of time with impressive reach. When on your belly you push up and up, straining toward the sky.

Your fine motor skills are put to good use locating tiny crumbs on the floor and putting them into your mouth.and your dad has started a regime of at least once-daily vacuuming.You like to sit by the Christmas tree and try to pull ornaments off.

Your favorite time of the day is either bathtime with Lucy (which has become much more fun since you can sit up and play!) or dinner time, you get super excited about food and your hands are in constant movement while you wait for the next bite. You love bean soup with ham.

Your sister's favorite thing in the world is to make you laugh. You have four teeth and a family that loves you very very, very, very much.

Happy eight months!

Love,
Mama

seven months

Dear Oscar,

On your seven-month birthday I flew to California in short leather boots and a dress that was impossible to nurse in. You stayed with your Daddy all day, as usual, practicing sitting up and working on cutting your third tooth. You ate banana and sweet potato and pureed ham and bean soup, but hardly any milk, and when I got back home just before your bedtime you had your final meal in great big gulps.

I trimmed the crazy alfalfa pouf off the top of your head last weekend after Nana scolded me, so it is shorter now but it still sticks up and I like it. You still have a few of those two-and-a-half inch hairs from birth scattered across your head, long and fine and silvery when they catch the light.

I love your ears. I love the muscle in your forehead that looks like a second set of eyebrows, and the expressions that both sets let you make. I love the way your tongue keeps curling to the top of your mouth to feel the edge of your brand new tooth.

You like to catch someone's eye from across the room and make a cawing creaky gear sound that your sister can perfectly imitate. You like to laugh when Lucy jumps for you and plays peek-a-boo. You like to snuggle, to be kissed under the chin, to be held upside down.

You smile less at strangers as you get older, and stare more; your eyes are still a dark slate blue, but a ring is emerging around the pupil that suggests a gray hazel. We're waiting to see what settles in. 

Happy seven months, little one!

I love you.

Love,
Your Mama