I totally forgot to write you a letter with your three month milestone post. You will learn, pretty quickly, that your mama is forgetful. You will witness a lot of scrambling around the house looking for keys, mad dashes back to the grocery store to pick up the forgotten bag, and numerous trips to the bank for replacement debit cards. I hope you have somehow inherited someone else’s capacity for remembering things, someone who is not me nor your father.
I can see already, though, that you have inherited your dad’s curiosity. Put you down in front of something and you are all over it, poking, grabbing, hitting, smiling. Sometimes you have my cautiousness, though. It takes you a few minutes of studying before you decide what you’re going to do, but once you’ve worked up the nerve, BAM, that toy is now halfway across the room.
You have quite the little personality, my girl. You are very insistent about what you want and when you want it. Yesterday your dad was trying to burp you, but you wanted to stand up. You won, and he burped you with one hand while helping you balance with the other. For a three month old, you spend a lot of time on your feet. You’ll extend your legs and lock them at the knee and refuse to sit, or lie down — you want to be up on your feet, looking at the world.
You do everything with gusto, whether it’s crying, laughing, playing or eating. The most common thing we hear about you? She’s so alert! And you are. You are captivated by lights, sound, people. You’re so determined to get at what you want, even if it’s a scaredy cat named Marbles who runs the moment you lock eyes on him. I can only imagine what you’re going to get up to once you get those legs going for real.
M, I am so glad you are such a bright girl. Not bright in the sense of smart, although you are, and that’s good. But bright in that you light up the room, the house, our lives. Winter is long and dark, here, but inside our home we have a tiny ball of sunshine. You wake up every morning with huge grins, kicking your legs and shuffling your way around the crib inch by inch. And some nights — most nights — you fall asleep with a smile on your face, carefully studying your dad or me through half-shut eyes. Those nights feel like a victory. No matter what the day has held — because some are good, and some are bad — those smiles are a trophy and a treasure.
I hope the world always returns the joy you give it. I hope you always wake up with a smile, and go to sleep the same.