To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 7 months old.
At 12:15, you start crying. I hate to include this in your story since it is not at all representative of your nights these days, but facts are facts, the Trump administration notwithstanding. You cry for half an hour while I bury my head under a pillow and your dad watches you on the monitor, then go back to sleep.
At 5:15, you’re at it again, but wait—it’s actually 6:15 thanks to the time change. So I guess you can get up. Your dad picks you up, and you nurse for half an hour. When you’re full, you start making your new favorite noise at me, sort of a labored buzzing noise. You grin when I make it back. Pleasantries exchanged, you move onto romping.
You scuttle across the bed, and when that territory becomes too small, I lower you by the ankles onto the floor. You explore the room fully, including under the bed. When you tire of your solo adventures, I toss you into the air and we make noises at each other. I suspect your diaper is dirty and make the grave mistake of checking it with my finger. I change you. At 8, we head back into your room to say good morning to Annie, and snuggle you down for your first nap.
We see you again at 9:30. You drink a bottle of milk with Dad and then play with Annie.
Doug and Kalia arrive with Eleanor and Riley, who goes down for a nap while you play with the big kids. Kalia and Doug both spend some time holding you and marveling at how big and strong you are. You poop again. It’s Dad’s turn.
At 11:15, you’re down for another nap. (This is really a strange day for sleep—normally you do 3 regular naps, 8-10, 12-2, and 4-6. I’d blame the time change, but you shifted in the wrong direction.) At 1, you’re back up. You spend some time in Kalia’s lap while I grocery shop and Dad barbeques ribs. You play on the floor in the living room, and pass Annie again as she wakes up from her nap and you go down for your next one at 3. It’s a shorty: you only sleep till 4. We all load up and head to the playground.
Dad wears you around, and the two of you head home early to finish up dinner preparations. You poop a third time. In your highchair for dinner, you eat a whole mess of lima beans and suck on a cheese roll. We put you down for a catnap at 6 and wake you up a few minutes past 7. Dad feeds you a big bottle, and we take turns supervising as you rove around the house, sneeze, clutch the table edge to stand and step, spit up, and put everything you can find into your mouth. We finish the day with three rounds of the Curious George Pat-a-Cake book, and I lullaby you into bed. You grouse and howl off and on but finally fall asleep.