Dear Olivia: Week 9

olivia-week9-webDear Olivia,

You’re two months old! A cashier asked me yesterday how old you were, and I couldn’t remember. Eight weeks? Nine weeks? Um, two months. That I know for sure.

I always knew, pretty much down to the day, how old Natalie was. I could say exactly what week we were on for her pictures the whole year through. With you? Not so much.

I think there are two reasons for this.

One: you don’t have the same undivided attention your sister did. I’m quite sure I’m not operating with the same amount of brain cells that I was two years ago.

Two: we’re a lot busier now. You’re much more well-traveled than your sister is, because we’re on the go quite frequently. Visiting your grandparents, running errands, dropping Natalie off at daycare, or just driving to Target because I NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. We still have plenty of downtime, but the days seem to go by much faster. Then I blink, and it’s been another week, and it’s time for another letter and another photo.

I’ll be darned if I can actually tell you what we did in between letters. Stuff. Definitely lots of stuff.

So. Time is moving forward at an alarming rate. At two months old, you’re not really a newborn anymore. You certainly don’t look like one. Your cheeks and your arms and your legs have all started to chunk up nicely, you actually have periods of time during the day when you’re awake, and, most awesome of all, you’re starting to smile.

Smiling is my favorite.

You LOVE staring at me and smiling. I’m not going to lie; I feel special. If someone else tries to get in your line of vision and direct your gaze to their face, you’re all NOPE and steadfastly refuse to take your eyes off mine (ahem, not naming any names, but it’s hypothetically possible your dad might want you to look at him every once in a while).

I’m excited for this next stage, what with all kinds of exciting things going on like more smiling and eye contact and grabbing things on purpose. All that with the added bonus of not moving anywhere when I put you down. Life got immensely more complicated when your sister decided that sitting in one place was soooooo old hat and she had places to be (usually where she wasn’t supposed to be, but that’s another story), so I’m grateful to have more time getting the hang of parenting two kids at the same time before I have to worry about two kids running away from me in the grocery store at the same time. Ahem.

Your two-month checkup is next week, and I’m totally pumped to see how much you weigh. Yes, these are the things you get excited about when you’re a parent: weight checks (the baby’s, not yours; it’s only exciting to see one of those numbers go up).

I’m betting you’re about to give your sister a run for her 99th-percentile money. You’re so tall! You’re busting out of all your 3-month footie pants and pjs, which is problematic because, for some reason, when I was sorting through all of Natalie’s baby clothes when I was about five months pregnant, I decided that the amount of footie pjs we had in all sizes was excessive. I donated half of them.

WHAT WAS I THINKING.

I forgot about one other magical part of this stage: the happy spitting. You eat, you spit up. You smile, you spit up. You burp, you spit up. We go through clothing changes faster than you can say WILL I NEED A BURP CLOTH NOW!! And that goes for both of us, because your aim is impeccable. You never fail to hit me, even when you’re angled so far over my shoulder that the projectile should, in theory, clear my shoulder and just hit the floor. NOPE. In my hair, down my back, even on my shoes. Or, if I’m holding you to my chest, straight down my shirt. Every. Single. Time. HOW. PLEASE TELL ME HOW YOU ARE DOING THIS.

So if you are reading these letters when you’re older and thinking about how fun and cute and adorable babies are, especially when they have that “new baby” smell, just remember: “new baby” gives way to “eau de spit-up” very, very quickly.

But then we give you a bath and you smell delicious again, and I can’t stop myself from sniffing the top of your head and petting your fluffy hair.

I know. Moms are weird. Better get used to it.

Love always,
Mama

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