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