So, some time has passed since I wrote my last post here. Something like four months, but who's keeping track of these things? Ahem.
You were born squarely in the age of Facebook and Instagram, of Twitter and Pinterest. Who knows if these things will still be in existence by the time you're old enough to read this letter. But for now, the norm, the standard we've all become accustomed to is instant oversharing of the minutiae of life. What did you have for breakfast? Post a picture on Instagram. With whom are you in a relationship? No one, if it's not "Facebook official." And so it goes that much of the documenting of your life thus far hasn't happened in written form - it's been in pictures and captions and comments on various social media platforms.
I'll admit that it's been difficult to keep up with blogging all of the amazing changes you've been cruising through in your typical ho-hum fashion. There are a lot of days when I drift off to sleep thinking that I need to write about the way that you spit like a camel, or how your whole face lights up when your brother enters the room. But then sleep takes over, and before I know it, time has slipped out from under me again.
You've been sitting up on your own for the past few weeks. You're still not so much a fan of rolling over, or spending any time on your stomach at all, really. Now and then I fret silently about whether you're meeting the appropriate developmental milestones, but in the grand scheme of things, your dad and I have always had the sense that you will be just fine. Whether that's your temperament or our maturation as parents remains to be seen, I suppose.
There are still so many moments I want to capture. The way that you shriek gleefully for ten minutes after I've put you down for a nap before conking out. Your new habit of pushing your tongue in and out, like a little lizard. Your face lights up now when I come home from work and peer at you from the front entryway. You have no idea how my heart sings to see the tentative, then full on smile that washes over you when I walk through the door.
I call you monkey, though I don't even know where that nickname came from. I suppose I called your brother monkey too. I still call you squishy. Also gorgeous, and Baby A, and amazing baby. You're starting to recognize your name. You smile sometimes when I say Adeline or Adi. After a moment's pause, a slow grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, as if you're recalling fond memories of an old friend.
Most nights before bed, I sing Billy Joel's Lullaby to you. The last verse is the one I like the most:
Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dreamI don't really have a tidy ending to all of this reminiscing. There used to be a time when I would read and re-read everything I wrote, to make sure that I had every last letter in the right place, that every image I tried to evoke with words was picture perfect, that every sentence conveyed just the right sentiment. I'm realizing as time goes by, as you're growing up before me, that getting it just right isn't the important thing. Just getting it down is. So I will keep trying.
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Some day your child may cry
And if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart, there will always be a part of me
Love,
Mama
