Somehow, some way, you're already three months old. A quarter of a year old. The fact that children grow up at the speed of light continues to astound me. The science of it remains a mystery to me. I meant to write you a letter every month but, life. Also, it's totally your fault because you all but refuse to sleep if your arms aren't strapped down. We really need to wean you off of being swaddled but you are completely uninterested in that business. So at night we swaddle you and during the day I hold you, rock you, put you in your crib, try to get a nap out of you and rejoice if you sleep unswaddled for more than ten minutes in a place that is not my arms. I just took a shower, made your brother lunch, and sat down to write. I knew I was operating on borrowed time and, sure enough, about three sentences ago you started crying. I'll leave you in there for a few minutes, hoping that you'll fall back to sleep. Your screaming will escalate and it'll all be over. So, I get nothing done, including letters to you. But that's okay because you are totally worth every pile of clothes unwashed, every speck of dust that lies in wait, every dinner thrown together at the last second.
I'm pecking out the words with one hand now while you snore on my chest. You've got the neck of my shirt in a vice grip, as if to say, "Don't ever put me down, Mama. Oh the things I've seen in my crib. Dreadful things!"
Kid, ANY time that you happily kick next to us on the bed, sit in your swing, or chill in your bouncer is considered a major success because, generally, your opinion is that there are four able bodied individuals around here who should be more than willing to hold you AT ALL TIMES. Except you will sleep at night so thank you for that. Swaddled up tight, you'll gladly sleep for 8-10 hours. That particular feat happened consistently at 11 weeks.You weighed between 10 and 11 lbs. Your brothers consistently slept through at 8 and 9 weeks but they were also between 10 and 11 lbs. So my new theory is this: Back slowly off the night time feedings and then wait until the kid beefs up enough to live off his fat reserves.
You have fat reserves now! They appear in the form of two plump leg rolls and a pair of chipmunk cheeks. When I saw your teeny little body for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure that rolls were achievable. But then I stuffed you full of breast milk and just look at you now. Speaking of that, we've had a steady supply and I couldn't be more thankful. I feed you about half milk and half formula and it works well (as is evidenced by the aforementioned fat reserves).
Your smile, your curls, and your eyes SLAY me. It's like a trifecta of adorable traits that come together and form some kind of Mama Kryptonite. I'd sooner shrivel up and die than choose a favorite. You're just really stinkin' cute and I'm not even being arrogant when I say that because I had nothing to do with it. I mean it. Well done, to your parents.
You currently enjoy sucking on your fists, taking baths, and snuggling. You are, I believe, just moments away from laughing. You have been letting out a strange sort of guttural chortle which then surprises you so much that you start to cry. If we could just get you to realize that mirth is joyful and hilarious and not at all scary, I'm certain you'd be well on your way to constant laughter.
In your first few months you have flown on an airplane three times, been to the beach and the bay and the San Diego Zoo, gone swimming in pools, been passed around to more people than I could begin to count, and brought so much happiness into our home.
Sometimes, I get caught up in sports and diapers and church and school and homework and all the living and I'm just like, "I have a baby." And then sometimes, in the quietness of our time together--just me and you--I really think about it. I mean, you are this huge miracle, this fantastic work of God that landed himself right in my arms, this person that I didn't even know I needed. God is using you to heal a part of me, to turn to scar what was gaping and sore. It is as though the Great Physician has stitched you through the broken places. And when all is said and done, there will be a reminder of the sorrow--always--but woven through it all is the healing joy of you. Sometimes, tears spring to my eyes when you grin at the world because I simply could not have dreamed up the beautiful phoenix that would rise from the ashes.
I love you so much more than you can know or imagine.