You’ve become more and more adept with your hands. A few weeks ago Matt brought you Magical Mister Mistoffolees the cat. When we attached her (see poem) to your toy bar, you reached for her – first sticking out your arm, fingers flexed, then batting her reliably and now you’re able to grab her feet and any of the other toys on the bar. You have one toy that turns, with four different parts (a ball with a mirror, a cylinder, etc. [drawing] that we hang from the bar and you’ve become frustrates with it because you really want to look at each of the component parts but you’re not deft enough – yet – to hold it still (if I hold it still you like to play with the parts separately).

At each new stage you seem already to be striving for the next. The promise of sitting up (aided for a second or two on your own before you sag forward or top to the side – which, amazingly to me, doesn’t seem to bother you) has made leaning back (except when you’re tired) less fun and being able to grab, while sometimes satisfying, brings with it the seeds of discontent as you can’t get Mister Mistoffelees ‘ ear (or Maizy’s nose) in your mouth (or back in your mouth).

You can, though, use both hands – one grabbing, one guiding, to move things towards your mouth, and in the last couple of days you’ve been rolling to the side and REACHING towards toys/objects you want. You’ve also just found your toes, which you find quite interesting to hold on to.

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A few weeks ago you abandoned your “ah gya” sounds for a yell which you modulate in order to converse. Some mornings, especially you’ll talk back and forth for a long time, and I get the sense that when I sometimes get your language right, that’s when you laugh.

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Wonderful moments: your grin when we come get you in the morning, the feel of you against me in the night, belly to belly.

Went to the Aquarium today with Cindy and Kayla and Jordan and Ben. You’re full of changes – trying to roll over, grabbing your toys, watching, watching, watching. The last couple of days you’ve let me read to you – Quick as a Cricket, Brown Bear and Snowy Day. Mari said yesterday you’d grown from a week ago. I don’t see it in size, but sense more and more that you are becoming aware that you are you. Had the same instinct today seeing a new born as I had a week or so ago at the club. When were you that size? I can’t remember now looking at you and not having you look back.

I just told your Aunt Ruth that Aunt Sam was pregnant and that cousins Jeff and Alison just (Friday) had a little girl, Melanie Maria. She said “Who cares? They’re not Nell.” Look to her if you ever need an ally.

Now you love to stand on my belly and talk to me. Especially in the morning, when you’re full and rested you grin and coo with your head tilted to the side and your eyes (sorry for the cliche) twinkling. I realized yesterday that in these moments, when we’re looking and loving each other you move towards me with your head – almost like a turtle poking out of its shell – reaching with the one part of your body over which you have real control. I find it wonderful.

Today you like it when I dance your feet as you’re lying on your back on the bed. True joy if you’re naked.

You’re asleep in my arms on the airplane heading home from a 10 day visit to LA where you charmed your aunts and grandparents, met your friend Harper and seemed to enjoy the warm. The first time you rode in the car with the windows open you reminded me of the dogs who love to ride with their heads out the window, or, more appropriately like a movie starlet in a convertible – eyes closed, neck arched back and a blissful expression on your face. You smile a lot now – usually in the morning which seems like a particularly happy time for you. Rubbing your belly and close face-to-face attention seem to please you particularly. Your Uncle David and I were play fighting and got what felt like your first real laugh out of you. Then several days later, Nana’s silliness and my eating your feet elicited the same.

On Friday night, your Dad and I went to the symphony leaving you with Grandpa and Nana and Dave. Somehow leaving you in the evening with your Dad was harder than leaving you with Joyce – it was the first time we’ve been together without you, and you’ve become so much of us that I felt bereft – incomplete. Still, the performance was good (though I was a bit tired from walking with you from 3-5 am the night before – you wide awake, but not unhappy, me wishing we lived in LA so I could walk you and show you the lights of the valley and let you feel the warm soft air – and it was a treat to be out and about, with you with people who love you and us with the pleasure of returning to you. Especially nice for me to return to your intimate suckle. My favorite now is when you have your eyes wide open – alert and intent on a workmanlike suck – like an artist maybe, deep in the throes of satisfying, serious work.

Dad’s entry:

On the plane – your mom was brave. There was turbulence and she doesn’t like to fly anyways, but you helped her focus. Just changed you in our seats, you’re very accommodating, pretty much all ways. We didn’t so much decide that it was the right time to have you, as know. Know in a gentle, tentative way. Accepting that it was right, together, we were always sure, not really knowing “sure” of what, but knowing. Never a question  in our varied looks at one another, never a question before, during or after. It was just your time and our time, the three of us. We weren’t ever completely sure of ourselves, or what to do, or what we thought would happen, but we knew things were right. What fun. So what do I expect? What do I want to happen? I keep thinking of watching you discover things and hoping I might be the one to introduce some favorites. Like books, I remember discovering some great books, I can’t wait ’til you do. It was so much fun to watch you take your first bath (I love baths and I love to swim) your eyes lit up and you froze. You weren’t sure if it was good or bad. Then you seemed to concentrate, paying attention to all the sensations. You were in with your mom. I got a cup and she gently poured warm water over your shoulders. You were all alert, not a cry, even when I got some water in your eyes. It was so much fun and it got me thinking of all the other adventures to come. When I proposed to your mommy, I wrote out a promise that she would always eat well. I love to watch her face when it shows pleasure and she knows good food. When I get it right it’s so much fun. I’ve been thinking about feeding you. Your mom gets all the fun now, I can’t wait for my turn. What your mom loves best is simple things, like for example, when we were in Hawaii, in a mango forest, we found the perfect mango drops, full of flavor, red and shiny with how much sugar they had and on Vinalhaven we had mussels which we collected ourselves, cooked in white wine and leeks and some beautiful fresh diced tomatoes. And often in Vermont and New Hampshire we’d find wild apples with strong wonderful tastes, one once like a lemony banana. It brought a beautiful smile to her face. I wonder what it will be with you? The lake at Camp, a perfect strawberry (or like your ma, raspberries), vanilla ice cream and maple syrup. What joys can I help you discover, and which ones will you discover on your own and then bring to me?

Over the past week you’ve begun to smile – usually in response to a sound – to my voice, your Dad’s voice – to Zoe’s voice at Christmas. I apologize for the trite description, but your eyes do twinkle and you’re all gum as you grin, though sometimes the smiles are more modest – a natural extension, it seems, of your quizzical looks – as though while you’re not sure what you’re seeing or hearing, it pleases you.

Recently you’ve been reluctant to go to bed. Want nothing but to walk around. Even my breast will not soothe you and I am sad and sometimes frustrated that I cannot soothe you. Last night your Dad and I argued and I worried – worry – about how it makes you feel – our tension, my anger, our panic – the dis-ease it must leave you with. The question, really,  is how I can protect you – if I can protect you – a question that becomes hard to bear when what I must sometimes protect you from is me. At the same time, of course, I realize that you’re resilient, able to weather much and I, of course, imperfect. I hope there’s a lot of your Dad in you – the capacity to take life as it comes and make the best of what’s immediately available. To be as happy or decent as can be in the midst of turmoil, relaxed i the face of discontent, and not too prone – like me – to feel that the only solution is to start again – all that’s been built suddenly – and with my sometimes mercurial moods temporarily worthless. As though having once let you down, I cannot redeem my parenthood. Then I come to and find each moment precious again – it’s a complex legacy we give you and not always an easy one to manage.

You’ve been antsy today – not able to settle down. I worry that you are uncomfortable, but can’t seem to soothe you. You seem, though, to like the Baby Bjorn. Your Dad thinks you’ve crossed a developmental threshold and are trying to find your legs. Indeed, every day you are more alert, more present, with clearer interests – lights, sounds and increasingly good control of your hands – you’ve found your mouth repeatedly today and car reach for your toys [drawing of floor toy]. When you sleep, your lids appear translucent, with fine delicate red veins visible below the surface. Your eyes are large and so the lids command your face and you are breathtakingly beautiful and so peaceful. I love to nurse you when you’ve just begun to stir. You take my nipple in your mouth with a question – like a treat you think will be delicious but have never had before. It rests against your bottom lip  and you explore it with your tongue. You then begin, slowly, deliberately, but assuredly to nurse, and when my milk lets down, you swallow with the same deliberation, eyes closed and look so satisfied…

When we dress you up in your lion suit – but really whenever we take you out, we are transcendent – somehow, in others’ eyes, more than ourselves. Last night at El Taqueria, we got an extra glass of my banana liquado and people, as I always have, smile on the street. At Mr. Crowley’s wake and funeral you gave people hope – a glimpse of the future – you gave a reason to be happy when they needed it – reminded me of the truth that life’s a cycle.

I remember coming out of the hospital Sunday morning. Your whole arrival was somehow magical – removed from time – we arrived at the hospital in a late night deserted world – warm and emerged on an equally deserted Sunday morning – cool with a breeze – as though the world, as well as we, had gone through some monumental transition.

This morning, last night, I cannot figure out what you want. You seem querulous, perhaps uncomfortable, and there are few moments, even when you’re held, that you seem happy.

Your Dad loves how you purse your lips, as though you were gently blowing out a candle. You’re awake a lot now – not always happy, but with bright, alert eyes that are a thrill when you look at me.