Six Monthiversary

Dear Iris,

You must have had some foresight that today was not going to be an ordinary Wednesday. We began this day together, just you and Mom, alone in the downstairs bedroom reading (me), and trying to shout down the house (you). About 45 minutes into this glorious August 26th, we finally decided that sleep is in fact, not for suckers, and fitfully rested till the sun came up and Dad came downstairs to figure out why he slept so well for the first time in six months.

As I am sure you remember, I wasn't terribly pleased with the fact that we had to get up and have a midnight party. I realize now though that it afforded us the opportunity to spend the first hours of the day alone together, and that I got to see you the first moment that you became a six month old baby. You must have known that I would carry this memory with me forever, like a gift, or why else would you have so vehemently kicked me in the gut for the hour preceding our departure to the downstairs? Good call, kiddo.

When you were very, very small, Dad and I used to walk miles through the house trying to help you to calm down, relax your tired little body, stop fighting long enough to sleep for longer than 20 minutes. One of those days, as I lapped the living room for the 7,083rd time, I caught our reflection in the big mirror and paused. In that brief pause I reminded myself that on that day, you were nearly three weeks old, you weighed eight little pounds and you smelled like the ocean. I felt in that moment more solidly than I ever knew to be possible that you would grow so fast, and someday I'd fuzzily recall our reflection there in the living room mirror and know what it means to watch time slip away without notice.

I saw you at four, seven, fifteen years old. I saw us living in a different house, a different state, you learning - everything- and moving to your own house, making your own choices, making your own mistakes. It should have affected me more, this realization, but then you were so new and it felt at the time as if nothing would ever change. It felt like time was speeding out of control and standing still at once, and I chose to believe that we would always be like that, snuggled together like we were still part of the same body. Even now, after half a year, I can feel you wiggling and nudging me behind my bellybutton. No matter how old you are, I will always look down to see if I can tell which extremity you're poking me with, even as I realize that no, there's no one there. It's heartbreaking for a tiny fraction of a second, but then, you're here:

Time is flying; has flown. You have now entered the second half of the first year of your life. You like carrots and books and bunnies. You have friends and you like to stick your hand in their mouths. Your are known as The Whiz, Jellybean, Lou, I, Luella (Druella/Truella/Cruella), and Baby Iris. You have one tooth and you don't crawl, but you do wiggle backwards in a crawling-esque fashion. You are ticklish everywhere, and from the first day that you found your voice, you have greeted every morning with a laugh and a song and a hearty wiggle session.

So grow if you must, but remember that to your Dad and me, you'll always be our baby, our Iris Luella, and no you may not wear that skirt out of the house.