Wanderlust

Letters to the O

Three Weeks

We've decided to succumb to the inevitable. We gave you the dreaded NUK this week, mostly in an attempt to save my poor nipples and induce sedated sleep without resorting to drugs. It works well, except when it falls out of your mouth, which is just about every thirty seconds on average. It's hard to feel sorry for you though, wailing away when the thing is just inches from your mouth and you don't have the coordination to get it there. Even Miles could manage that feat of dexterity.

Everyday seems we stumble on another milestone. I hadn't expected them to come so quickly. Just the other day, you smiled at me- a sincere grin of recognition. Hey, I remember you. You're the lady with the milk. I like you. And then yesterday, you grabbed an inanimate object in your hand- quite by accident I might add. Although you held it away from yourself instead of bringing it in closer, which was a shame since it was your NUK and you had just pulled it out of your own mouth and were crying bitterly over the injustice of it. Your father has been trying to convince me that you have extraordinarily strong legs and can almost stand on your own. Since you're still having trouble balancing your bobble head with that scrawny neck of yours, I sincerely doubt you'll be supporting your own weight by the weekend.

Last night you slept five hours practically straight through. I was shocked and then terribly frightened. Because I now know what five hours of sleep in a row feels like. It will be hard to go back. You've been "co-sleeping" with us, which basically means that when you can't sleep, nobody else gets to either. I sometimes take you into the office and sleep with you there just to give your father a break. But I've been reluctant to give you up to your own bed. I keep saying I'll transition you next week... or maybe the week after. But I like sleeping within the comfort of your little breath just a few inches away, your warm, snuggled body under my arm. Except those nights when you mew and pout every twenty minutes and your father snores like a freight train. Then it sucks. But I keep reminding myself that two weeks ago I couldn't envision you being a month old. And now we're on the doorstep of that. And you'll never be a newborn again. So even when you keep me awake all night, I try to remember that I'd rather spend the time savoring these moments then let them pass me by asleep. And that's what I'll tell you when you're five and I wake you up every night with a cold washcloth on your feet at 3 am as retribution. You'll never be five again, sweetheart. Wake up and savor it.