Little grunts and shifts. A sigh. Peaceful sleep.
As strange as it may sound, I am sometimes in denial of having a second child. I find myself thinking that it's not possible that I ever was pregnant again, let alone that I gave birth and currently have a baby, sleeping soundly in the crib next to me.
A baby, born six months ago today. It seems like just yesterday –if yesterday had been about seventy degrees cooler– that Monsieur Meow and I were speeding along on a very early Friday morning. While it was all happening it seemed like it was taking forever; the contractions, the car ride, the labor. But if I stop to think how it all happened, not only did I go into labor five days early but once my water broke, the kid was out and screaming bloody murder in under four hours total.
Now that's service.
Anyway, now I am in denial about my baby is getting bigger and wanting to do things like eat food ; sleep less; destroy towers of blocks that his beloved big brother builds for him; or have a burning and loudly-expressed desire to crawl across the floor, even if it means attempting to do so on his forehead.
(Aside: And this one likes to eat, it seems. I'd been doing a couple of dry runs, introducing a little bit of water some days, banana, and even a small mouthful of bean insides, to all of which he seemed to respond favorably. Today we tried plain rice cereal and he actually snatched the full spoon out of my hand and gummed it eagerly, even as he made this horrible, what-are-you-feeding-me-woman face. Think of the most adorable thing EVAR and multiply it by ten. Million. Yeah.)
I am barely used to having a new little bundle of chunkiness in my life, and said bundle of chunky wants to wriggle out of my grasp and become a little boy already.
And part of me is not ready, but the other part is really enjoying all this, and looking forward to all the changes to come.
Happy half-birthday to you, dear sweet Don Meow.