Yesterday you turned five months old! And what a fun month it has been—chatting, gnawing, giggling, rolling. What a genius you are.
On our Thanksgiving road trip you were superb, with only a 20 minute exception when you got hungry before we found a spot to stop. So many new faces to see and new arms holding you. But you just rolled with it. So perfectly mellow and content, you are a case study in flexibility. I’m taking notes.
After teetering on your side for several days, you eventually learned how to roll all the way over this month! We react as if this is a miraculous feat of physics (and maybe considering your plumpness, it is). We are so very proud of you, but also forced to rewrite our entire Addison Care Manual. Mobility changes the whole game, and now we have to have one eye on you always or you’ll scoot yourself right under a table. Most likely to grind those gums on the wood.
Teething has reared its ugly head and I want so badly to punch him in the knees and tell him to beat it for another six months. You don’t have to chew breast milk. But instead, on those days you are out of sorts and know no other way but tears, I rock you a little longer, we spend more time cuddled in the nursery behind a book, my computer waits while we explore the feel of palm branches in the backyard and I let you gnaw at my knuckles for as long as you like. I just want to take your pain away, little one. It doesn’t seem fair for you to feel it in your angelic innocence, especially when I adore that pink, gummy grin of yours. Forget shopping for bras or a prom dress, I can’t even handle you having one tooth.
You have discovered your voice! Much like your awkward, jerky limbs, you don’t quite know how to control the power in those vocal chords. What tumbles from your little mouth is a raspy, intent growling of sorts. It’s clear you have something of utmost importance to relate to your toys–eyebrows furrowed, glare unmoving. We just don’t have the slightest clue what story you’re telling. When your dad and I hear you working it out in the back seat, we just laugh. You’re a pretty funny kid.
If I could have my way, sweet girl, I would never talk to you of evil and fear. But this week, more than any other moment, the whole world was faced with the realization that even precious babies cannot be shielded from these things. The evil will find its way in, at some time. And now that you are in my life and I am responsible for your safety and protection, that reality is a hard, hard truth to accept.
I cannot reconcile the absolute beauty and hope in your sweet face with the unspeakable horror that coexists in the world. My mama’s soul is so shaken.
Your dad and I promise from the most profound depths of our hearts that we will protect you with all we have from the preying eye of this mad, mad world. But if there is ever a day that that is not enough, I plead with the One who is our only Comfort that He finds you in that moment. He is the infinite Love that I cannot give you, with arms wide enough to hold you when I cannot, blanketing you with a peace that transcends our understanding. I hope that I can help you find Him. There is nothing else more valuable to give you in this blink of a lifetime.
I told someone recently that your dad and I didn’t decide to have you because we felt our lives were lacking. We didn’t think something was missing–we thought you would simply add to our happiness.
And oh how monumentally understated that expectation proves to be. You have added immeasurable joy, purpose and fulfillment to our lives. Your presence has filled to overflowing the deepest corners of my soul that I never even knew desired more than anything to be your mama. And maybe that is where I can rest in these days, in the embrace of gratitude that you are here. And you are well. And I have had five whole months of your glances and smiles and nuzzles and snores and tears and thighs. That is the light in this darkness. Every moment with you is pure light.
From My Whole Heart,