Dear Bitlet . . . Your Life at Three Months

Dearest Bitlet,

Yesterday we marked three months together, and I know that you will someday ask me what you were like as a baby. I have been trying to chronicle our times together through the pictures your family has taken of you, but I know that, although a picture is worth a thousand words, sometimes you need the actual words themselves. That is why I have tried to write about our times together, starting when you were affectionately known as the “Blob.”

From the moment I found out that you existed, I loved you, but from the moment you were born, that love has grown to proportions no amount of words can ever describe. You have transformed me, and I will never be able to thank you enough for coming into my life. But, I am getting sentimental, when the point was actually to let you know about your first three months of life.

You were a very sweet-natured baby from the first day of your life. I should have known you would be easy when I experienced maybe five minutes of pain (at the most) during your birth. You rocked that delivery room.

And I will always be grateful for the easy birth.

You rarely cried, and I never got the sense that you were crying for the sheer fun of it. When you cried, you meant it, and that meant that I needed to act quickly, to avoid your emotional bereavement.

That’s a nice way of saying “your screaming.”

But those were rare, indeed.

No, from the day you were born you looked at the world as though you were studying it . . . wondering why you were here and why the world around you existed. You were just precious when your little forehead wrinkled up as you pondered the cosmos. I am not sure which I love more—that look of quizzical wonder, or the heart-melting smile I got for the first time when you were about two months old.

That was a very clever move, by the way.

In those early days, you slept a lot. You slept so much, in fact, that you lost too much weight that first week, and I got to experience for the first time what “feeling like a failure” meant when you are a mother. It was devastating.

I was also apparently starving you in those days. You can thank your dad for finally making you that first bottle of formula, as I agonized over not being able to sustain your needs, and wanting to so desperately that I couldn’t see that what you really wanted (and needed) was to eat more.

I am still sorry for that one . . . glad your double thighs tell me your body has forgiven me.

At night, you were an absolute angel. You didn’t sleep through the night, but when you awoke, it was only long enough to eat, and you were back to sleep. In that regard, dearest Bitlet, you were The. Best. Baby. Ever. I don’t care what anyone says about you.

You were really great in large crowds. When you were only a couple of weeks old, we took you to the Rites of Spring. You were the youngest person there, and from that first public appearance, you were a hit. I think you might have gotten betrothed that weekend to a little boy who was six weeks at the time.

When you were four weeks old, you and I got to see Kris Allen, who won American Idol that year. You were the youngest fan at his appearance. Thanks for winning those ringtones for Mom, and for being so very cool in a crowd of over 15,000. The people around us were amazed as you slept through the concert. I wasn’t. You always acted contrary to what I had ever expected.

If I ever try to complain about how long it took to break you from sleeping with your father and me, don’t listen. I needed you there, and I loved cuddling with you. I am the one who couldn’t break myself from the habit. I admit that.

If you ever have a baby, and are faced with the debate of whether to co-sleep or not? I say do it. It yielded some of the most precious moments I shared with you, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

You also had your grandparents completely wrapped around your fingers. If science later reveals that bovine growth hormones really are bad for infants, and that I should have listened to your grandmother and gotten organic formula . . . well, I am sure there were many, many times she was right and I was wrong. She was your biggest ally as I tried to navigate those early days. So any negative side effects you experienced from Wal-Mart’s formula is completely on me. And your dad.

They loved you at the daycare. I felt comfortable about my choice of daycare every time I picked you up and grinned. And when I dropped you off in the morning and you grinned. I loved the way they just adored my little Bitlet. The ladies in the nursery there, and at church, adored you. If you were spoiled as a child, I won’t take sole responsibility for that one. I had help from pretty much every person who ever met you.

You threw your first actual temper tantrum on the day you turned three months old. We were trying to introduce you to rice cereal as you went to bed, after we had spent the evening at an art exhibit, dinner at a restaurant, and grocery shopping. By the time we got home, you were so tired, you did not want to experiment with your food, and you let us know it. You screamed so loudly and with such gusto, I really believed, for the first time, that I had hurt you terribly by feeding you something other than formula. It was a horrible feeling, but you settled down eventually and fell asleep in my arms.

Even after that fit, I loved you. I loved you for that fit!

I loved those first three months, Bitlet. I loved watching you grow. I loved knowing that you recognized me. I loved the lessons you taught me and the realization I experienced soon after your birth that I was your mother. It has been the most sacred gift I have ever known. I treasured those early days, and I eagerly anticipated the many more I would share with you. I can’t wait to watch you experience life. But I don’t want you to do it too fast. It’s the cruel paradox of being a mother, I think . . . wanting to guide another human being through life, but not wanting them to grow up. But it will come, and I will be here to watch it all, God willing. Thank you, dearest Bitlet, for allowing me to experience that with you.

Love,

Mom.