It's official, baby girl -- you're a half year of age and then some. It has been the fastest half-year of my entire life! And there have been so many happenings in your life, too.
LA trip
Solids
Pediatric checkup
Pool
Baby Dedication
carseat crying
7.27.2010
7.05.2010
Three... Four... Five Months!
Dear little Kaelyn,
Can reiterating that time is just FLYING past since you came be an excuse for not getting your monthly letters out on time? Probably not, but time certainly is passing so much more quickly than I could have ever dreamed.
You are becoming so very alert all the time, so much more expressive (your gurgly little laugh rings through our home daily and brings much joy to my heart every time) and so active. Starting sometime in month two, you'd have instances where you'd accidentally kick yourself over from tummy to back, but it wasn't intentional enough to really count. At a week shy of five months, you finally managed to get over the hump of your arm and roll from back to front. Once it happened, there was no going back. Self-imposed tummy time is what's in right now, and you love it -- except when you get stuck on your stomach and forget how to get back! I've found that when you hit a milestone like this, you tend to do it constantly for a while and then seem to relapse a little until you rediscover the new activity.
You're also very aware of your surroundings, including the people around you. Where before you could be passed from person to person without complaint, you now know who Mom and Dad are and will sometimes protest being with anybody but one of us. Speaking of, even though you're home with Mommy all day, you adore your Daddy to no end. Once he comes home, you greet him with the biggest crinkly-eyed smile and a chorus of babbles. Your "big brother dog" Wicket has also caught your eyes: they follow him as he bounces happily around the room, and you giggle when you see his silly toss-and-catch antics with his plush squeaky toys.
Four months came and went in a flash and you had another check up at the doc's. You're growing right at the same percentages as the last appointment... I was so thrilled and proud to know you're thriving and getting enough to eat. Your dreaded second set of shots was administered and this time was a little bit harder than the last, with your poor little thighs, sore to the touch, causing sad faces all around that night... but morning came and you were all smiles again.
Sleep... many people ask us if you're a "good" baby and we've come to learn that this is code for "Does she sleep through the night?" You still aren't quite there yet and wake up anywhere from one to three times a night (ah the dreaded 4:30 AM sleep shift!), but we still would not say you're short of "good" since you are so mild-mannered and happy in general. Usually a short listen to some bubbly white noise will knock you out well enough, or a little rocking if the white noise doesn't quite persuade you to drift off.
These past few months, you've definitely been getting around town. We have become much more adept at packing up all of your stuff and bringing you with us to various places -- the weekly farmer's market, the mall, downtown SF, a one-night Napa/Sonoma visit, the drive-in movie theater (whereupon you found your back-of-the-SUV "bed" between Mommy and Daddy so comfy, you slept through Toy Story 3 like nobody's business!), and, of course, numerous trips to Target! I am now much more comfortable going out alone with you and carrying you in the Baby Bjorn to get groceries, run other errands, stop by the office or meet up with friends.
I can scarcely believe the "big girl" in front of me is the same tiny infant that arrived in January, the same little one who kicked me repeatedly in the ribs all through the holiday season. You're so much more than I ever expected -- more work, time, and sacrifice, yes -- but above all, more rewarding. Even though I find myself grumbling many times about different things that have had to change since you came, I love being your Mommy and I already cannot imagine life without you. Love you, baby girl!
Almost three months
Can reiterating that time is just FLYING past since you came be an excuse for not getting your monthly letters out on time? Probably not, but time certainly is passing so much more quickly than I could have ever dreamed.
Four months
You are becoming so very alert all the time, so much more expressive (your gurgly little laugh rings through our home daily and brings much joy to my heart every time) and so active. Starting sometime in month two, you'd have instances where you'd accidentally kick yourself over from tummy to back, but it wasn't intentional enough to really count. At a week shy of five months, you finally managed to get over the hump of your arm and roll from back to front. Once it happened, there was no going back. Self-imposed tummy time is what's in right now, and you love it -- except when you get stuck on your stomach and forget how to get back! I've found that when you hit a milestone like this, you tend to do it constantly for a while and then seem to relapse a little until you rediscover the new activity.
Five months
You're also very aware of your surroundings, including the people around you. Where before you could be passed from person to person without complaint, you now know who Mom and Dad are and will sometimes protest being with anybody but one of us. Speaking of, even though you're home with Mommy all day, you adore your Daddy to no end. Once he comes home, you greet him with the biggest crinkly-eyed smile and a chorus of babbles. Your "big brother dog" Wicket has also caught your eyes: they follow him as he bounces happily around the room, and you giggle when you see his silly toss-and-catch antics with his plush squeaky toys.
Four months came and went in a flash and you had another check up at the doc's. You're growing right at the same percentages as the last appointment... I was so thrilled and proud to know you're thriving and getting enough to eat. Your dreaded second set of shots was administered and this time was a little bit harder than the last, with your poor little thighs, sore to the touch, causing sad faces all around that night... but morning came and you were all smiles again.
Sleep... many people ask us if you're a "good" baby and we've come to learn that this is code for "Does she sleep through the night?" You still aren't quite there yet and wake up anywhere from one to three times a night (ah the dreaded 4:30 AM sleep shift!), but we still would not say you're short of "good" since you are so mild-mannered and happy in general. Usually a short listen to some bubbly white noise will knock you out well enough, or a little rocking if the white noise doesn't quite persuade you to drift off.
These past few months, you've definitely been getting around town. We have become much more adept at packing up all of your stuff and bringing you with us to various places -- the weekly farmer's market, the mall, downtown SF, a one-night Napa/Sonoma visit, the drive-in movie theater (whereupon you found your back-of-the-SUV "bed" between Mommy and Daddy so comfy, you slept through Toy Story 3 like nobody's business!), and, of course, numerous trips to Target! I am now much more comfortable going out alone with you and carrying you in the Baby Bjorn to get groceries, run other errands, stop by the office or meet up with friends.
With Mommy in the back of the SUV at the drive-in... almost movie time!
I can scarcely believe the "big girl" in front of me is the same tiny infant that arrived in January, the same little one who kicked me repeatedly in the ribs all through the holiday season. You're so much more than I ever expected -- more work, time, and sacrifice, yes -- but above all, more rewarding. Even though I find myself grumbling many times about different things that have had to change since you came, I love being your Mommy and I already cannot imagine life without you. Love you, baby girl!
7.04.2010
Reminiscing, Already
Dear Kaelyn,
Tonight, for some reason, sleep eludes me. It has finally really hit me that this week has ended and this coming week, I return back to work. My last full week as a stay-at-home mom is over. I know and I've constantly told myself that many moms have done this and most when their little ones are even younger than you, but the heart rules over the mind in this case and I am still somehow having trouble focusing on the blessing of being home for so long, versus the sadness of parting.
I'm sure both of us will adapt and become accustomed to life after the transition, and all will go on quite well, but tonight... tonight it is just hard to think about leaving you.
As I lay in bed listening to your soft sleeping breaths and your daddy's louder ones, I couldn't help but reminisce about that first day with you. I ran through the events in my head until the tears came pricking to my eyes as I recalled the details. And I knew I had to write them down somewhere...
I remember so clearly the first hour or so with you, lying skin to skin against me, snuggling up and hungrily rooting around making little snuffling noises like a baby animal. In that instant, I felt keenly that the heroine of the hour was truly you and not I who birthed you, because you were this exhausted new wee one who had just made a strenuous and traumatic journey, and still then bore on to take your first breath and cry and then determinedly latch on and energetically eat your first meal before finally resting. I held you close, trying to soak in the reality that you were finally here and that I -- we -- had really completed the monumental task of birth. There were tears and achingly huge smiles, an overflowing of joy. That hour flew past, and the memory of it, so many minutes seemingly compacted into a moment, is etched in my mind as if it were yesterday.
Your grandparents arrived to meet you for the first time, and after some small talk your daddy took you in his arms while I hopped out of the semi-upright hospital bed to try to use the bathroom for the first time after the birth. My lack of any drugs allowed me to be able to do this unassisted, but I was still unprepared for the dizziness from blood loss that came as I walked to the toilet in the little room inside my birthing room. Alarmed, I snatched desperately at the handicap handrail to steady myself. The aftermath of the birth was everywhere and I refilled the peri bottle I'd been given again and again, trying to rinse some of it away as best as I could. The birthing site, newly stitched up, was unbelievably sore and painful as the stream of water hit it.
I remember catching sight of my face in the mirror above the sink and feeling stricken, unconsciously letting the bottle fill to overflowing beneath my fingertips. My reflection looked gray and colorless and more tired than I'd ever imagined I could look; the too-big blue hospital robe had blood on it and hung off one shoulder. I don't think I could have looked much worse. There were days ahead that I didn't know of then, where the hormones would kick in hard and I would cry and complain about the healing process and the horrors wreaked on my physical self. But at that time, even as I took stock of the somewhat gruesome details of the aftermath, my head was in a euphoric cloud. I had YOU. You were right outside that door in your daddy's arms and you were perfect and whole and peacefully asleep at that moment.
I toddled back into the birthing room in a fresh robe, this time with the help of my nurse, who'd rushed in once she heard that I'd attempted to get around on my own, and sat gratefully down in the wheelchair she'd brought. I sipped a cup of water and a small cardboard apple juice box comfortably while I enjoyed the exclamations from your grandparents over you. Finally, your daddy laid you, swaddled in a hospital blanket and wearing a purple cap handknit by the mom of the attending midwife, back in my arms and began gathering our things to move to the recovery room in the mom/baby unit. I vaguely remember the rest of the family's chatter, but mostly I only had eyes for you. I kept my eyes on you, pretty much oblivious as we were wheeled out of the birthing room, down the shiny linoleum hallways to our small but private recovery room. While pregnant, I'd imagined that ride down the hallway with you in my arms many times, envisioning how proud and triumphant your daddy and I would be. But there was no way I could have imagined the way I felt at the actual moment: so blessed, so overwhelmed, so enamored.
The room was sparse, as most hospital rooms are, but it was small and cozy and had a view of the street in front of the hospital with its ever-changing scene. There was a large clear box with a padded bottom on a metal cart next to the hospital bed that I was helped onto, to serve as your bed for the night. You didn't spend much time in it, though -- we held you for the majority of that first night of your life.
The night was spent learning to breastfeed, sharing a somewhat edible hospital meal (they only gave a meal for mom that night) and then eating a celebratory take-out meal that your daddy went and picked up nearby, changing your first sticky, tarry black meconium diapers and meeting new nurses as they traded shifts. At that time, visitors beyond our parents weren't allowed, something I'd been quite disappointed to learn months before. Now, I was almost glad. Between feedings and diapers, naps and the occasional text message, we held you and marveled over you and your ten fingers and ten toes, your tiny lips and tightly closed little eyes. Your exhausted daddy and I both took turns taking small naps to refuel our energy as adrenaline wore off. I found the time awake wasn't too hard, though we were having a pretty rough start at breastfeeding. I was so fascinated by you, so taken with you and I could not get enough of looking at you. We talked to you, kissed your little cheeks and nose, said silly things that parents say to their babies in unconsciously higher tones and tried to guess who you looked like most. (At that point, it was definitely Daddy!)
When morning came and the blurry night was over, I felt elated that we'd made it successfully through our first night as parents, though I also felt like I was standing at the bottom of a huge mountain of a learning curve, looking up and realizing I had to climb it on what small amount of physical strength I had left in me. There were some papers to fill out, my healing progress was being monitored and some tests needed to be run on you (I cried along with you when they pricked your little heel to get a small blood sample), but we jumped through the hoops quickly and were told we could be discharged about 24 hours after your birth. We were smiling from ear to ear at the news. It was time to bring you home.
Tonight, for some reason, sleep eludes me. It has finally really hit me that this week has ended and this coming week, I return back to work. My last full week as a stay-at-home mom is over. I know and I've constantly told myself that many moms have done this and most when their little ones are even younger than you, but the heart rules over the mind in this case and I am still somehow having trouble focusing on the blessing of being home for so long, versus the sadness of parting.
I'm sure both of us will adapt and become accustomed to life after the transition, and all will go on quite well, but tonight... tonight it is just hard to think about leaving you.
As I lay in bed listening to your soft sleeping breaths and your daddy's louder ones, I couldn't help but reminisce about that first day with you. I ran through the events in my head until the tears came pricking to my eyes as I recalled the details. And I knew I had to write them down somewhere...
I remember so clearly the first hour or so with you, lying skin to skin against me, snuggling up and hungrily rooting around making little snuffling noises like a baby animal. In that instant, I felt keenly that the heroine of the hour was truly you and not I who birthed you, because you were this exhausted new wee one who had just made a strenuous and traumatic journey, and still then bore on to take your first breath and cry and then determinedly latch on and energetically eat your first meal before finally resting. I held you close, trying to soak in the reality that you were finally here and that I -- we -- had really completed the monumental task of birth. There were tears and achingly huge smiles, an overflowing of joy. That hour flew past, and the memory of it, so many minutes seemingly compacted into a moment, is etched in my mind as if it were yesterday.
Your grandparents arrived to meet you for the first time, and after some small talk your daddy took you in his arms while I hopped out of the semi-upright hospital bed to try to use the bathroom for the first time after the birth. My lack of any drugs allowed me to be able to do this unassisted, but I was still unprepared for the dizziness from blood loss that came as I walked to the toilet in the little room inside my birthing room. Alarmed, I snatched desperately at the handicap handrail to steady myself. The aftermath of the birth was everywhere and I refilled the peri bottle I'd been given again and again, trying to rinse some of it away as best as I could. The birthing site, newly stitched up, was unbelievably sore and painful as the stream of water hit it.
I remember catching sight of my face in the mirror above the sink and feeling stricken, unconsciously letting the bottle fill to overflowing beneath my fingertips. My reflection looked gray and colorless and more tired than I'd ever imagined I could look; the too-big blue hospital robe had blood on it and hung off one shoulder. I don't think I could have looked much worse. There were days ahead that I didn't know of then, where the hormones would kick in hard and I would cry and complain about the healing process and the horrors wreaked on my physical self. But at that time, even as I took stock of the somewhat gruesome details of the aftermath, my head was in a euphoric cloud. I had YOU. You were right outside that door in your daddy's arms and you were perfect and whole and peacefully asleep at that moment.
I toddled back into the birthing room in a fresh robe, this time with the help of my nurse, who'd rushed in once she heard that I'd attempted to get around on my own, and sat gratefully down in the wheelchair she'd brought. I sipped a cup of water and a small cardboard apple juice box comfortably while I enjoyed the exclamations from your grandparents over you. Finally, your daddy laid you, swaddled in a hospital blanket and wearing a purple cap handknit by the mom of the attending midwife, back in my arms and began gathering our things to move to the recovery room in the mom/baby unit. I vaguely remember the rest of the family's chatter, but mostly I only had eyes for you. I kept my eyes on you, pretty much oblivious as we were wheeled out of the birthing room, down the shiny linoleum hallways to our small but private recovery room. While pregnant, I'd imagined that ride down the hallway with you in my arms many times, envisioning how proud and triumphant your daddy and I would be. But there was no way I could have imagined the way I felt at the actual moment: so blessed, so overwhelmed, so enamored.
The room was sparse, as most hospital rooms are, but it was small and cozy and had a view of the street in front of the hospital with its ever-changing scene. There was a large clear box with a padded bottom on a metal cart next to the hospital bed that I was helped onto, to serve as your bed for the night. You didn't spend much time in it, though -- we held you for the majority of that first night of your life.
The night was spent learning to breastfeed, sharing a somewhat edible hospital meal (they only gave a meal for mom that night) and then eating a celebratory take-out meal that your daddy went and picked up nearby, changing your first sticky, tarry black meconium diapers and meeting new nurses as they traded shifts. At that time, visitors beyond our parents weren't allowed, something I'd been quite disappointed to learn months before. Now, I was almost glad. Between feedings and diapers, naps and the occasional text message, we held you and marveled over you and your ten fingers and ten toes, your tiny lips and tightly closed little eyes. Your exhausted daddy and I both took turns taking small naps to refuel our energy as adrenaline wore off. I found the time awake wasn't too hard, though we were having a pretty rough start at breastfeeding. I was so fascinated by you, so taken with you and I could not get enough of looking at you. We talked to you, kissed your little cheeks and nose, said silly things that parents say to their babies in unconsciously higher tones and tried to guess who you looked like most. (At that point, it was definitely Daddy!)
When morning came and the blurry night was over, I felt elated that we'd made it successfully through our first night as parents, though I also felt like I was standing at the bottom of a huge mountain of a learning curve, looking up and realizing I had to climb it on what small amount of physical strength I had left in me. There were some papers to fill out, my healing progress was being monitored and some tests needed to be run on you (I cried along with you when they pricked your little heel to get a small blood sample), but we jumped through the hoops quickly and were told we could be discharged about 24 hours after your birth. We were smiling from ear to ear at the news. It was time to bring you home.
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