9 Months
Greer Girl,
You turned nine months old a half a month ago. I suppose this is what it is to be the third child – everything is late. At least we aren’t at never yet. I suppose that’s what happens when you are number four – nobody ever gets around to it.
In the past month (and a half) you have started talking. I know that sounds crazy, but you really are saying actual words. You started with ‘Hi’ and then came ‘Mama’, which was so fantastic to hear, even if you mostly say it when I’m not around. Then you started calling for the dogs by saying ‘Woof, woof’ with lots of emphasis on the ‘f’s. This past week you added ‘Dada’ to your repertoire.
Last night when I went in to get you for a feeding, earlier than I should because your father hates to hear your sadness in a way that your mother can tolerate, as soon as I picked you up, you pushed yourself back from my shoulder, smiled and said “Dada” and started leaning toward the stairs. It was as if you knew that the only reason I was there was because of him. I rewarded you by taking you downstairs (which is a perk of being number three, Mama is pretty laid back about your sleep. Your brother only partied with us a handful of times as a baby – mostly when there were tornado warnings. Your sister rarely woke up in the middle of the night because she loves sleep as much as her Mama) and letting Dada hold you. You clung to him like a tiny monkey, wrapping his sweater around your little fists, you’d have been happy to never let go.
You’re really close to walking, taking a couple of steps but then loosing your balance and falling to your cushion-y diapered bottom. You don’t care at all about falling. You might stand back up, without holding on to anything to do so, or you might just crawl away. You love to look out the window. You love to shove tiny things in your mouth. You love music – in the church service two weeks ago, when the drums started to beat a little louder and faster, you shoved your tiny hands into the air and wiggled your whole body to the beat. I’m pretty sure that’s what most of us wanted to do, but you’re not afraid of what anybody else thinks of you right now, and I wish I could let you hold on to that blissful lack of self forever (although I can imagine where that might get tricky in certain social situations).
You love to put your hands on trucks and cars and crawl fast with them in your hands. It’s some kind of hand roller skating trick that is pretty fun to watch. You love to pull out all the tupperware from the cabinets and then play with none of it. You do the same thing with your clothes bins too.
You’ve become suspicious of people who aren’t in the family. You still love Gideon the most. You like when Poppy sings to you. You prefer YiaYia to feed you your supper (soft veggies, juicy fruits, plenty of baby oatmeal). You want Dada to save you. You want Piper to get out of your way. You want me to stop trying to put you down for a nap. When you’re sleepy and I take you into the room with a fan and a humidifier humming their white noise, you have a tiny meltdown; crying and pushing away from me for a few seconds to a few minutes until you give up. Then you nuzzle into my chest, pull your blanket up by your face and close your tired eyes. I love those moments so much. Just you and me, alone in the world. I lay you down and say “Night night, sweet girl. Sleep well,” and you you usually do.
You have to have surgery to open up a blocked tear duct in a couple of weeks. I’m nervous about the anesthesia part of it, not so much the surgery part of it. Your doctor is a guy we know from church and he is also one of the best pediatric ophthalmologists around. It will be quick, hopefully you’ll only be under for just thirty total minutes, but you can’t eat or drink anything after midnight. You also have to be well before they’ll do it. Right now your nose is filled with goo. Pretty sure your sister shared whatever is ailing her with you. She’s good at sharing, unless it is that one baby doll you want so badly. You’ll both head out to the pediatrician tomorrow to try to clear it all up. We’ve asked our friends to petition the Lord for your health too. The Lord is sovereign and I’ll trust in His wisdom, knowing that we are responsible for our actions as well, so I’ll do whatever I can to get you better.
Thank you for being the kind of baby that still smiles when you’re sick, who smiles when you’re happy, who smiles in the middle of the night when all I want you to do is go back to sleep. You are the third, if I line you all up, but there’s little reason to think of you all chronologically. You’re just you, in your own special corner of my affection and my love for you is total.
Always your Mama,
Me
