a day in your life

To Annie: this is how you spent the day you turned 3 months old.

At 6:30 you wake up, precisely when you’re supposed to. We are encouraging you to stretch out your night sleeping by putting you to bed a little earlier every few days, but you need to be up by 6:30 so that I have time to feed you before I get ready for work, which I’ve just gone back to this week. Your dad is staying home with you this month. You’ve slept in your crib, which is also new. Since we came home from California we’ve set up your room: the queen-sized bed that your dad and I slept in for a decade toted off by the Salvation Army, and a simple white crib assembled in its place. This morning we find that as usual, you have wiggled more than 90 degrees counter-clockwise during the night, so that your feet are hitting the side of the crib. You are still so tiny.

Your room, take one.
Your room, take one.

Your dad greets you, changes your diaper, and delivers you to me, as he has every day for the last three months; then he brings up coffee, orange juice, and the morning paper. While you eat, I read articles about South Carolina removing the Confederate flag from the Capitol grounds and about 21 million stolen records after a data breach of a government office. The past and the future. Your dad goes for a quick swim at our neighborhood pool, and I sing you songs, dress you in your onesie with snails, and carry you around the house to look at things. You like mirrors and shelves of books. At 8, you start your first nap.

You like to grab a corner of the paper and put it in your mouth.
You like to grab a corner of the paper and put it in your mouth.

I ended up with no work meetings today so have decided to try working from home, the first time with you in residence. It’s hard for me not to go to you when you start to fuss halfway through your first nap, but I know Dad is on it, so I don’t see you again until you’re ready for Second Breakfast at 9:30. We sit in an armchair upstairs. You look at the tree branches outside the window as you eat, and I cut a few of your sharp fingernails. When you’re finished, I take your 13-week photos and then turn you over to Dad. He dangles things over you while you lay on a blanket, lets you drag his fingers into your maw, and makes up songs (the lyrics variations on, “You’re a baby. You’re a tiny baby.”). You LOVE being sung to. When we talk, you are interested, but when we sing, you grin.

You take a long nap in a new sleep sack that lets you get your hands up to your face. Your dad has been experimenting all week to allow you more freedom while you sleep—left arm out for one nap, right arm out for the next. Yesterday he sent me a picture of you without any sack OR pacifier. It was bold, but this is how you learn.

We are watching you.
We are always watching.

After the nap, you eat lunch, and then we tuck you into your stroller, leash up Sous, and all walk to Doc’s—our favorite patio in the world right now. We drink beer and eat fried fish while you peace out in your stroller. It’s a far cry from our first trip with you there, at age 10 days, when Dad had to jiggle you against his chest for pretty much 100% of the time to keep you calm, and then you screamed all the way home. We’re all better now.

No shrieking at all.
No shrieking at all.

You take another nap when we get home, and I decide my work day is done when you wake up again after 4. You eat, kick your legs and watch the ceiling fan on the bed while I fold laundry, and then we visit Dad downstairs, where he is being attacked by bears in a video game. We walk around the house and then sit on the couch and look at a photo album—I’m happy to tell you how many of the people in the pictures you’ve already met. Then you nap again, your last of the day. You fuss yourself awake a little earlier than usual, but eat like a champ and hang out with us while we have our own dinner and watch some of a movie. At 8:45, you go to bed, talk to yourself for 15 minutes, and fall asleep.

 

One thought on “a day in your life

  1. Pingback: a day in your life | lululu

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *