Dear Sasha, Month One

Dear Sasha,

You are sleeping on my lap, nestled in the boppy with your little body curved around my stomach. You have wriggled your way out of the yellow waffle blanket your father swaddled you in, so your teeny chub toes are sticking out and your arms are strewn spaghetti-like first on your chest, now up near your ears. Unfortunately, it took you only days to figure out how to escape the swaddle, including the double-swaddle and two varieties of guaranteed store-bought swaddles. Sometimes, when you stay all sweet and wrapped for more than two minutes, I call you my "burrito bundle." Daddy calls you his "banana," and Nana calls you an Oscar Meyer weiner. Mostly, though, you are our little Houdini. Right now, your fingers are splayed, gangsta style. Your lips make a perfect bow and your adorable skater boy hair is spiked as usual. You're making noise, which you always do, and at the moment your noises sound like squeaks and chirps, with a few squeals thrown in for good measure.



These are your happy sleep noises. The grunts -- the 300 lb. fat man grunts that do not stop for hours -- those are the gassy sleep noises. They had grown considerably less frequent until your dumb Mama indulged in a Ben and Jerry's strawberry shake at the mall the other day and, girl, did they come back with a vengence. Your daddy and I were up all night soothing our beautiful girl. Every time we put you down between us, which is where you sleep best (even though Mama lives in fear that one of us will roll over onto your little body), you would fall asleep peacefully only to wake up choking. Do you know what this does to us? We absolutely panic, whip you upright and examine you for signs of life. You're always fine, and seem fairly happy afterward, usually peeping at us through now wide-open grey blue eyes.

You are a fantastic communicator. Some of those through-the-belly conversations your dad had with you must have paid off. He is a superior communicator; he even majored in communications in college. But you won't have to. Already, you have different types of cries. There is an angry, low-pitched, open-mouthed cry; there is a baaing lamb-like cry that means you're uncomfortable or lonely; and there is the most-familiar, fussy, FEED ME! cry.



Of all the things in life, I can say with certainty there are three you enjoy the most. The first is milk. I never want to forget the way you peck at my shoulder, or slurp on your daddy's arm so hard he worries he'll have a hicky. I love the way you'll suck on a paci or a finger for a few seconds until you realize there's no milk coming out and then you'll shake your head back and forth with these quick, whipping motions and make throaty sounds that most certainly mean, "You adults are trying to trick me and it won't work!"

Even though I find myself walking around topless at all hours of the day, and even though I am impatient with your desire to eat constantly from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. daily although you are so full you choke and milk runs down your little chin, I wouldn't trade nursing you for the world. I love to watch your perfect, round face nestled close to me and feel your tiny fingers petting my side or gripping a bit of my shirt. I love to stroke your tiny jaw and your little eyebrows and trace circles on your pink cheek as you clamp onto my boob with both hands, as if to say, "You're mine, boob, and you're not going anywhere!"

The second thing you like most in life is being held by your Daddy. Whenever I can't console you, he always can. You especially like to lay on his chest in the evening, listening to his loud, slow heartbeat. And, wow, does your daddy love you. Last night, you would not stop fussing unless he paced the living room with you. And so he held you in one hand and a board book in the other, reading to you in a sweet, low voice.

Most nights, your dad changes almost all of your diapers. But one night, he had a hard time waking from a dream and mistook you for a stack of lab papers. I had handed you over, hoping he'd take the next change, and he started blabbing about a work project. I asked, "What lab papers are you talking about, honey?" He put one hand under you and one hand on top, and said, "THESE lab papers!" I snatched you away from him in a hurry, worried he might go file you instead of cleaning your tush!

The third thing you love is the bath. You lay there like a movie star at a Hollywood day spa, especially when we wash your hair.



And it's a good thing you like the bath, too, because this month we have had dozens of huge spit ups as well as projectile poops and pees. Today, all my pants that fit were in the laundry and so I had to dig out some pre-pregnancy pants. Just a few minutes ago, you pooped on those, too, so now I'm walking around in a shirt and panties!

Let's talk about your left ear. It looks like a tiny animal, maybe a mouse, took an itty bitty bite out of it. My left ear looks like that, too. The rest of you looks like your Daddy, which is fine by me because he's darn cute, but if you ever wonder if a big girl like you (you weigh more than 11 lbs. and your doctor is already predicting you'll be six feet tall!) really came from a little girl like me, you can just reach up and touch your ear and know that it's true.

At the end of this first month, I'm still not sure I believe you're really here. I'm a little sad that you're not inside me anymore, but thrilled that you're eating from me and sleeping and playing in my arms constantly. Every day, you are more your own person. You open your eyes more and more, leaving "Cyclops" behind and revealing a bright, alert Sasha. In your sleep, you sometimes giggle. Your little legs are getting some meat on them and growing strong, so that when I lift you, it seems you could practically stand. And when you're on your belly you do push ups.



Even though I used to think I wanted you to stay just the way you were the day you were born, I now know that each day brings something new for me to love about you. I wish I could pause you every day and take more time to watch you, smell your little sour-milk neck and cover you with kisses. But then I wouldn't get to the next day. And so far each has been more wonderful than the last.

I love you, little Boo.

Love,
Mama