Two Down

Dear Mirabel,

I think a child's birthday is a chance for its mother to enter a magical and nostalgic time warp. Is there another event so dramatically impactful? Suddenly I find myself awake at 4:30 in the morning this January 15th, and the vivid images of the agony of bringing YOU into this world surround me. My January 15th will forever be assoiciated with the long hospital corridors, the groans echoing off of the bathub walls, the shock of hearing "It's a girl!", the surreality of not being able to hold you once your umbilical ties to your comfortable realm were broken.

My midwife said at the time that babies with Down syndrome often have a longer time figuring the way "out." You decided to flip breach once I was already in labor, effectively tossing my ideas of laboring at home, while watching Golden Girls reruns, while bouncing on the stability ball, out the window.

I was immediately and unexpectedly admitted to the hospital at noon on January 14th, where the doctor on call was able to successfully perform a version and turn you, but as a result my labor had to be stopped. So while the stability ball sat unused in the living room and Rose, Blanche, and Dorothy waited expectantly in the DVD player, I walked the halls with your father, desperately trying to get labor started again. At 5 pm, my acupuncturist came in and got things going a bit, but not enough, and by 10 pm I finally consented to Pitocin. It was so maddening for me to have been in natural labor all morning, wandering through Kohl's to pick out an overnight backpack for Luciya while the secret thrill of the first contractions made me pause in the aisles once or twice, to look forward to spending the bleak winter day waiting for the right time to welcome you, and to then have to spend the actual day indoors, unsure, and no longer in labor.

I helped pull you into the world at 4:53 a.m.


Then everything began, and at the same time everything stopped.

The nurses, the lights, the midwife, the explanations, the white buzz in my ears, the wash of serenity, the ache, the buzzing again, the nurse coming in to punch me in the uterus, the look on John's face, the need to sleep, the need to hold my baby, the rush, and the sink, and oh God why does that nurse have to come punch me in the uterus again?!

Fast forward.


And you're two years old today.

While I can't imagine that today's events will plant themselves with such resolve in my mommy brain, I can tell you that today you were celebrated by a dozen people who love you.

There was cake.



And there were gifts.


And there were songs and toasts.


We were celebrating a remarkable two-year-old, whose short life has already inspired us all to appreciate LIFE in a way we can all admit we did not know before you.


We celebrated your mouthful of teeth, your ability (as of last week!) to crawl on all fours, the signs you can use - Thank You, More, Please, Eat, Mommy, Daddy. We delighted in the way you smashed fistfuls of cake into your face.



We held you and praised you. Inwardly and for all to see.

January 15th, 2010 was a new moon. According to astrology,

"When the Moon is new, the Sun and Moon are aligned in the same sign, and a powerful energy portal is opened. New Moons are a great time to set intentions for things you'd like to create, develop, cultivate, make manifest. ... What matters is that you're committing yourself to your vision, and open to receiving guidance, healing, support from Spirit. ...

The new Moon has a more inward feel, has a void or empty quality, and therefore can be frightening to those not comfortable with uncertainty. Can you learn to trust the dark? It's the moment when the old passes away and the new is not yet here. That's why it's a powerful time for sending out your prayer, wishes, desires to the Universe."

There was certainly a lot of praying, wishing, and desiring that happened that night. You stayed in the hospital for two weeks and came home to us on the full moon. And as we all know, "Full Moons are for taking action and celebrating the fruit of your efforts." Our prayers and wishes and desires are coming true in you, Sweet Mirabel.

Hooray!

I love you, Mirabel!

Love,
Mama

bella beana: 18 months

Dear Mirabel,

You are 18 months old today.



You continue to delight and daymake and charm. But you've got this new 'tude, and it slays us every day:


It's this under-the-brow, pout-lip, all-knowing heart smasher that you've perfected so well that it has *almost* replaced your sunshine smiles. I'm not quite sure when it started, but by now just about everyone who knows you has had the pleasure of being on its receiving end.

Physically, your biggest accomplishment is the ability to scoot in a circular motion when you're seated on your bum. You've started bending your knees while seated, which is huge -- one step closer to putting those fat little hands down and actually covering some ground. But other than that, you are still unable t sit yourself up from a reclined position, and you're not mobile other than rolling. Little steps have taken on such greater significance; your development is just on hyper slooowwww mode. Which only means we get to delight in every little milestone for weeks.


You finally got your first teeth - four at once! - at 16 months old. One of the typical developments in babies with Ds is a strange tooth eruption pattern, but your first four were split in the middle top and bottom of your gums. Luciya's first emerging teeth were named Pokey and Buddy, but yours seems a bit more aggressive, so they were named Jagger and Friends (one of whom was Keith, to be sure).

You've now got no less than 7 of Jagger's pals pushing their way in, and consequently we've had to stop nursing. July 1st was officially our last day (sigh), because, without going into too much unnecessary detail, you left some painful bloody gouges in a place where painful bloody gouges should be illegal. But we made it nearly 18 months, and now I'm officially free to get wasted every night. Just kidding.

You continue to be a sweet, snuggly, nuzzly beanie baby. You refuse to put on weight very rapidly, and you're still hovering at around 19 pounds. You sleep well through the night, waking around 6:30 a.m. and usually giving me a half hour of babble before our bright morning bottle. You still take organic formula, because milk still doesn't seem to agree with you.


We are starting Month Three of Nexium for your reflux, and while I won't say the spit-up phenomenon has been eliminated, it is dramatically reduced, which means we can very well get through a day with one or two bibs. Your feeding specialist is thrilled with your progress, as you've learned to chew with up-and-down AND circular jaw movements (another milestone on which I never would have thought to congratulate my "typical" child.) You have feeding therapy every other week and physical therapy every week. We are going to begin speech therapy, as well, as soon as we get back from next week's summer road trip vacation to California.

Sweet girl, I am looking forward to the day you become mobile and can force me to re-babyproof the house. Until then, you are a true heartstring-tugger and gentle-soft milky monkey. I adore you so much it sometimes makes me ache.

I love you, Mirabel!!

Love,
Mama

bella beana: 15 months

Dear Mirabel,

The most remarkable thing happened this week.

You waved hello.

It’s your new party trick. In the last four days we’ve been showing off this awesome new feat to everyone. Wave to Mirabel! Mirabel, wave hello! Hi, Mirabel!! And it’s just a stiff, delayed upward hand jab. But I can see you processing the movement, and wanting to wave back, and concentrating so hard, and then your pudgy little digits flip up, for just a second, and I’m jubilant.

You are fifteen months old today, and besides your new salute, you’ve been making some physical leaps and bounds as of late. Nothing as remarkable as pulling up, or crawling, or even getting yourself into a seated position, but you seem wiser and stronger, and your pudge is slowly leaving those rosebud cheeks.

You still have a pretty insane reflux problem, and in addition to your weekly physical therapy we’re seeing a pediatric feeding specialist every other week. You had a swallow study at the hospital a couple months ago and when the feeding specialist got the results back she said you were the first case, in her 13 years of practice, of a child with the combination of issues that you have. Issues like swallowing too much air and a sphincter that doesn’t fully open and low muscle tone and gastric reflux, which, when added all up equal the Mirabel Special, which is equivalent to 6 bibs a day.

You are slowly learning to feed yourself, aka bring your hand to your mouth, and the Baby MumMums are the first thing you’ve been able to successfully chomp at solo. The super puffs, the bits of bread, the other easily-dissolved (because you can’t yet chew) items are just too tricky to understand. You’ll get a puff in your hand, get all freaked out and surprised, and flail the hand around like the puff is a magic dragon or something. The MumMums are longer, and very light, and a bit of an accomplishment.

You’ve gotten the clear to begin cows’ milk, but the few times I’ve introduced it to you have not produced pleasant results. Your spit-ups are extra stinky and super chunky, and just gross. You still wake up in the middle of the night around 3:30 a.m., and no matter how long we try to let you work it out and fall back asleep, you get worked up, and keep goingandgoingandgoingandgoing until one of us trudges upstairs to rock or feed you. I will be immensely grateful when this stage has passed. Since fifteen months feels like a really long stage. I’ve been told it is most likely due to your reflux, and I’m supposing it’s time to just buck up and start the prescription meds that your doctor prescribed a while ago, instead of hoping the probiotics we sprinkle in your bottles will suffice. Poor Bella Beana Ballerina.

You are so lovely. Your spirit is so kind and accepting. You are calm, and deep, and pleasant and good. Until we begin your therapies. You are not a fan of either therapy and you’ll flail and throw your head back during feeding work and whimper and pound your little face on the ground during physical therapy. I’ll admit there are times I wish your PT (who we do love) would take it a wee bit easier on you, but I understand that these steps are necessary for your ultimate strength. You still just sit and plop and roll and lay, and I am eagerly anticipating the day you learn to scooch around after me.

You continue to be a world-class snuggler. You are soft and love to be held against a shoulder after your nighttime bottle. You nuzzle in, breathe slowly, and twirl your fingers in my hair. You love nothing more than to be held, or rocked, or nursed, or cuddled or squeezed. You explode with darling laughter when I flutter my fingers over your belly and around your ribs. And you make it easy on all of us to comply with your snuggle wishes - your fat little thighs and wrinkly little toes and marshmallow buns are totally irresistible.

Welcome to your sixteenth month, my dear. I’m predicting we see a tooth or two in the next couple of weeks. I ‘m predicting some belly crawling in the next month. I’m predicting a welcoming wave with every day-making smile you shine out to the world.

I love you, Mirabel!

Love,

Mama

pace & patience

Before we begin, let's find her. Oh, there she is.



Now then.

My daughter is 13 months old and I can still leave her on the middle of my big bed without fear of her wandering off of it. She is 13 months old and cannot sit up from prone position without assistance. She is "toddler"- age, but still hasn't figured out how to scoot her little knees up to crawl.

So when I got the call from her Infant/Toddler Program case worker last week to make an addendum-signing appointment (Oh, the paperwork!) in order to move Mirabel's every-other-week physical therapy appointments to a weekly basis, I wasn't too surprised. Grateful, actually. But then I saw the copy of Mirabel's Physical Therapy Evaluation, and it said, right there in black and white, that "Mirabel is functioning at the level of a 4-6 month old given the range of her skills both in fine and gross motor at this time."

Dang.

She's functioning at the level of a baby less than half her age.

And it's just... it's kind of... hitting me, only know, that I feel a little frustrated. A little lost. A little guilty (Is it because of me that she's not progressing at a better pace? Do I need to be doing much more?). I'm starting to realize, and maybe to accept, that despite the perfections that exists in this plump and gorgeous and glowing-smiler adorable ray of delight Mirabel, there is a row ahead. And hoeing it is going to take a long time.

It's going to take forever.

Now that Mirabel is 13 months old, it's not as easy for me to envision and excuse her as a little baby. Now people double-take when I tell them she's 13 months old. Now her little comrades are starting to dash around and tear up the house and use small words and drink out of sippy cups that they wield themselves.

Now that Mirabel is 13 months old, I'm wishing I could put her down and have her be able to explore a bit. To open the Tupperware cupboard. To wander after me through the house. I wish I could put up the baby gate at the top of the stairs again. I wish I could surround her with toys and know she could reach for one and actively stay engaged with it. That her tiny fingers could discover their ability to scoop up the puffed rice and bring it to her lips.

Now that Mirabel is 13 months old it's getting harder not to compare her - to her friends, to other children, to her sister at this age. A universe of difference. Luciya was dancing.

Wait a second, let me find her again. Oh, there she is.


And I am so grateful, and I am so blessed, that this wee serene nugget loves nothing more than to be held. To be squished, and petted, and nuzzled with kisses right up under her supple little neck. That my 13 month old little girl is the most blissed-out round-bellied creature when she is resting on my lap, head on my chest, blowing baby gibberish at me between her contented sighs. Letting me stroke her thin, fuzzy, fly-away hair. Pulling back to shoot me a toothless smile.

And I am so grateful, and so blessed, too, that Mirabel will walk one day. That she'll run. That she won't need to be confined to a wheel chair. That she will speak, and she will drink from a cup, and she'll dance. And she'll learn and she'll make friends and she'll paint a rainbow and she'll fly.

She is the strong one here. She doesn't complain. She has made peace with that plain that exists beyond frustrations and beyond doubt. All she asks is that I ensure some opportunities to let her grow.

And so I will. We will. She will.



"Never think that God's delays are God's denials. Hold on; hold fast; hold out. Patience is genius." - Comte de Buffon

sweet one

Dear Mirabel Ruby,

This morning a low winter mist hung around much of the morning, shushing the bustle of the sunrise and softening the crackly brown outlines of the leafless trees. It is your first birthday, and I was grateful for the stillness outside, because my heart is having a bit of a time accepting the fact that it has been 12 months since our lives changed forever. But there they are, the naked trees and heavy gray clouds I gazed upon for two weeks from your space in the NICU. Outside is the breath-puffing chill, and the sidewalks look perpetually damp. It is January in Boise. It has been a year.


Has it been a year? Can it be? It seems so much more surreal since you are still my eternal baby, still equivalent to a six-month-old in that you sit and smile and roll and are fed pureed baby food, but you don't crawl or pull up or walk or feed yourself or have teeth. You gaze at me with those surprisingly cornflower blue, almond-shaped eyes and you're fine with everything. You're fine with the rolls upon delicious rolls along your thighs and arms, you're great with the bouncy seat and the physical therapy. You're content. You don't complain. Far from complaining, you radiate true goodness. You are a little goblin of goodness.


You smell of Weleda calendula baby lotion. It's the smell of my babies, and I'm so glad I stockpiled several bottles of it from the clearance bins at Fred Meyer. You smell soft, and warm, and natural and pure. The other night you uncharacteristically started screaming from your crib a couple hours after I had put you down. That uncanny mother's instinct kicked in and, although there was no telltale way to know, I said "Her cheeks hurt." I gently smoothed some of the Weleda lotion on your rosy-dry cheeks, and you were breathing softly into my neck moments later.


You still wake up once in the middle of the night, between 3 and 4 a.m., and I pad up to your room and feel the soft weight of your sweetness and the warm cotton of your footy jammies as we nurse in the glider, both of us mostly asleep. Some of my very favorite moments with you are just after you awake in the morning around 6:30 a.m., dawn still a tease out the big picture windows, and I clutch you to me and bring you back into our bed, where we snuggle, nurse, and doze for close to an hour. You often break away to babble - "buh-buh-buh {inhale} BAH-buh-buh-buh-buh" - and then snorkle right back into me for seconds and thirds and fourths. Luciya wakes up around 7:15 and usually comes into the room to join us, and the four of us enjoy happy family snuggles for a while. It is the sweetest way to start the day. I beam when I see my two morning-eyed beauties cuddling up together.


While everything about you is ingrained in my being right now, I know this too shall pass and I may forget, so here is what you are right now, physically: You still have a smooth nursing callus on your top lip. Your lips are shaped exactly like Luciya's. You hands are butter-soft, and have the yummy rubber-band roll at the wrist. I need to trim your fingernails often, because you are a lip- and nose- and chin- and waddle-grabber, and your father and I have each recently born bloody proof of your scratches on our noses. Your cheeks have become rosy from the dry cold. Your nose is constantly crusty from some sniffles that won't go away. Your thin hair is light brown and rapidly growing into a fine mullet. Piggy tails are possible and a near-daily style. You show no signs of sprouting teeth yet. This worries your great grandmother to no end. Your belly is round and soft. You pull your toes into your mouth for a snack. You eyelashes are long. Your eyes are deep, swirling, changing from blue to dark green, like a stormy sea. You have an enormous fontanel that gives us telltale warnings if you're nearing dehydration, like you were last week after your first bout with pukey, diarrhea-filled stomach flu.


You weren't quite your self this evening when we had family over for a simple birthday dinner; there was residual yuckyness hanging around and you were fussier than normal. But we toasted you and sang - twice - and you were passed around in your little brown dress and polka dot tights and you patiently observed your sister tearing open your presents. You had your first taste of whipped cream and delighted in it. We celebrated you.


Tonight, as I was gliding with you before slumber, I reached down to stroke your head and check your fontanel. And you pulled back and smiled at me, a simple, hearty, happy smile. A smile to smile, a smile because I stroked your head and it just felt nice. And so I stroked your head again and again, drifting my fingers through your fine hair, laying my palm upon your wide forehead. And that happily contented smile kept sliding across your face. And I suddenly wanted to devour you. I nuzzled your cheeks and planted kisses all over your sweet head and inhaled and inhaled and inhaled you until my senses were filled.

And I celebrate you today and every day for the past twelve months:



Happy birthday, Mirabel. I look forward to celebrating you for many many years, in many many ways.

Thank you for choosing us.



I love you, Mirabel!

Love,
Mama

milestones

Mirabel started sitting up at 8.5 months old. She rolls around the room and smiles like nobody's business. But at 11 months old, she still doesn't show any signs of crawling, pulling up, or feeding herself, whether with her fingers or from her bottle. I found this chart recently and am assured by the totally enormous range of age for these developmental milestones to occur. I have a feeling I will refer to it often!

daymaker

Dear Bella Beana Ballerina,

You are 11 months old today, which means that in the year 2010, the earth is moving on its axis at approximately 736 times faster than it has in the history of the universe.


You are
shine
bright
smile
give
heal
strong
real
chub
grasp
gnaw
soft
cuddle
light
simple
hold
feel
true.


In other words, you are a daymaker.

You bring joy. Reliably. Assuredly. Openly.

To everyone.


Your soft hands grow sharp nails fast. Your sharp nails dig into neck waddles and nearly rip lips off. You explore by feeling - testing, rubbing, scratching, scraping. Holding.

Your eyes love to look at faces. Every human makes you smile. Every one. And then... you make every human smile.


You are
brilliant
warm
desirable
gazing
lovely
wise
peace.


You sit, you roll. You're not tearing up the house or pulling into standing. You're not feeding yourself or even taking bites. You sit, you accept, you churn out smiles. Continually. Daily. Hourly.


You sleep. You cuddle. You nurse and take a bottle. You hair had a growth spurt. You have paintbrush piggies. You grasp your toes. You are surrounded by a multitude of supporters, lovers, people changed and put in awe by you.

I am awed by you.

You are
perfect
my daughter
my baby
extra baby
long nuzzles
fat hands
fine hair
cornflower eyes
patient.


I love you, Mirabel!

Love,
Mama

Do you hear what I hear?

A few months ago we received a call from the local Hearing and Balance clinic to get Mirabel in for a hearing screening. Apparently hearing loss is very common among babies with Down syndrome and though she passed her newborn hearing screen, they like to check again at 9 months old.

I took her in on a rainy day an fidgeted as they poked and prodded her with different implements in her teeny, tiny ears to measure how well her ear drum moves. The technician noticed some blockage and fluid buildup in her canals. We then sat in a sound booth while together. Mirabel wore some stylish headphones while the technician spoke into a microphone that registered on either the left or right side, then gauged her response. Mirabel would turn her head toward the sounds and be rewarded with a light-up, spinning Winnie the Pooh or Tigger.

Turns out, Mirabel's hearing registered at about 40 decibels. A "typical," good-hearing person will register at about 20 or below. So, some somewhat significant hearing loss.

The next step was a referral visit to the ENT. We met with Dr. Beck last week. She is renowned in the area and I was under the impression that we were fortunate to get in on such short notice. After another poky-look in Miss M's eensy weensy ears, she determined there was indeed a lot of blockage and some hearing loss as a result. She scheduled surgery to implant ear tubes five days later.

That day was today, and John and I left home this morning at 7 am with a sleepy, hungry (she wasn't allowed to eat or drink after 1:30 a.m., when I woke up to nurse her) little girl. We waited and waited with other young children and quiet parents until Dr. Beck scooped her away. So suddenly.

Heading in.

The procedure lasted all of eight minutes, and then she was back in my arms, which were resting on a pillow, waiting for her. It was miserable. She began to fuss and then wail - still under anesthesia. I couldn't nurse her until she was fully awake, which took at least five minutes. We had heard the other small children whining and bawling along the curtained posts on the small corridor, but since Mirabel rarely fusses I guess I thought she'd come out of it okay. It was such a hard thing to watch - my tiny sweetie churning miserably in my arms.

In true Mirabel fashion, though, she ate, woke up, and smiled, and we left about ten minutes later, carrying our souvenir of a tiny pink plastic gas mask. I think I'll make it into a Christmas tree ornament.

After a deep two hour nap, Mirabel and I had the day to ourselves. At one point I put her in the portable crib by the picture windows and I stood in the kitchen, where I softly said her name. She turned her head! I truly think her hearing has already improved.

We are flying to San Francisco this weekend (Mirabel's first trip!), and they assured me that tubes are actually a great thing for flying since the ears automatically equalize. We are up for anything.

Bucky

Though she manages to chomp down - ouch! - while she's nursing, at 9 months old Mirabel still doesn't have any teeth. Her pediatrician still suggested we try some grain puffs as a first snack; if anything to get her to practice her pincer grasp and hand-to-mouth coordination as occupational therapy.

So we did.

And it stuck to her toothless gums.

And she had "teeth."

And we laughed for days.

Ah, Mirabel, I hope you'll be able to forgive me for taking pictures and laughing til I cried before assisting you with your first Happy Puff. I look forward to chuckling to these photographs together one day.

.

I love you, Mirabel!

.

Love,

Mama

.

Stronger

The latest illumination:


At 8 1/2 months old, Mirabel is sitting up.

And she's all, "What. What's the big deal? Yeah, yeah, I'm sitting up. Wait'll you see what else I can do!"

And I can wait, because all this waiting, and working, and watching, and months of "extra baby," have been an insightful journey. She may take a little longer to do something, but she will do it. She will. And that's that. I can adapt right along side her, and cheer her on.

We've hit all the goals - however seemingly simple - I've thusfar set for Mirabel. Holding up her head. Rolling over. Smiling. Taking a bottle. And now, sitting up is here. Crawling is next!


We work with Mirabel's physical therapist every other week. We've got pages of notes on pressure points and massage techniques and strengthening moves, and we practice them all (though admittedly not as diligently - or daily - as we probably should). We pull out the vinyl "break dance mat." We press our fingertips along the muscles of her arms and legs, hands and feet. We spread our fingers wide over her little belly and do the "sun and moon" massage. We keep her legs flexed.

Sometimes she doesn't like it at all.


And sometimes she's cool with it.


The point is, we're going to do what it takes. We'll do everything. Together.


Recently, Mirabel and I started attending a sponsored Mommy and Me class at the Little Gym. (Thanks, Pat and gang!) Though her classmates are all crawling and reaching and bobbing and grabbing, sweet Mirabel is content to lie and observe. (Except now that she's sitting. She'll sit and observe.)


At the Little Gym we stretch and roll and put weight on our feet and ride the air trac and fluff the parachute. I can feel her little foot muscles flexing. I can see her tracking the brightly colored balls with her green-blue eyes. We can do just above all the activities, except for forward rolls. There is apparently an upper-spine thing we have to be aware of. But she digs it. It is good.

Though her physical progress is slower than typical, Mirabel is growing and changing every single day. Her face is changing. Her eyes are brighter. Her grasp is stronger. Her thighs are fatter and more delicious than it seems possible for a baby's thighs to be. The milestones are there, and they're sweet as her favorite apples-n-apricot baby food. Keep it up, girl. Keep growing.


You're amazing.

bel: 6 months

Dear Mira-Mirabella, Mira-Mirabel,

Dear Beanie Baby-Beaner-Beanpole-Bean Tree-Fats McGee,


You are more than half a year old now. While that in itself is stunning, I am more amazed that the two weeks you were in the NICU still seem like they took longer than the last six months did.


Six months old! Wait... six and a half months old! Oh, sweet, darling, mooshy gusher... what a half year it has been! And I am wiser, serener, and filled to burst at the seams with ludicrous love because of it. Because of you.

Yes, you have Down syndrome. Yes, this defines you. Yes, you are my daughter with Down syndrome. You have Down syndrome, I'm your mama, and Bob's your uncle. (Not really, but isn't that a saying?)


But for all intents and purposes, Miss Mirabel, you are a PERFECT baby. I fully recognize the fact that I am the proud mommy bear of a well-behaved, mild-mannered, happy, smiley, agreeable, well-sleeping, good-latching, multi-chub-rolled, day-making child. You sleep when I want you to sleep. You sleep through the night, in your own room, for ten straight hours (minus a two-week hiccup of 3 a.m. wakings. Not a problem. Don't sweat it). You break into a full-faced beam when I peek over your crib railing to fetch you. You let anyone hold you. You cuddle. You rarely cry. You're pleasant.


I recognize how lucky we are to have such a delightful baby. I recognize and am grateful for all of this and so much more that you are.

Yes, you have Down syndrome. Yes, that knowledge is constantly on my mind. Always. Forever. Undoubtedly. It's okay.


It's okay.

Because you're healthy, and you're happy, and you have blue eyes (!), and you roll over in both directions, and you can *almost* sit up for one second, and you're crazy about your big sister, and you've found your toes and they're quite delicious. Hooray!

Am I all smarmy and gooey and sugary and delighted? So what if I am... 80% percent of the time? I am a proud and happy mama. But.

But. Girl, take a bottle. Please, find one of the 85,000 nipples we've invested in an suck on it! I love that you nurse so well. I love, love, love to breastfeed you. But sometimes, Mama wants to know that I can be away from you for 3 or four hours, if need be, and that you can be fed.


You are simply not having it. All the physical therapy we practiced for weeks when you were three months old, when we got you on a bottle for a while, has gone out the window, and you are now a six month old who can arch and refuse and whimper and put her chubby foot down. Uh-uh. No bottle, no way, no how.

So. That's the next step in your physical therapy regime, which we get to experience every other week. You will get it. You will.


So far, we have met all of our physical therapy goals. Holding your head up, rolling over, reaching for toys... check, check check. Next is sitting up, and I'm confident you'll be doing that in the next month. Which will be nice, because while it is so pleasant to have some extra "baby" time, you're getting to be a bigger girl (15 pounds! 25 inches!), and it would be nice to plop you down on your fat little bottom instead of lying you on your back.


Thank you for making me smile, every. single. day. Thank you for the long, soft, sweet nuzzles in my bed every morning as we nurse. Thank you for choosing me to be your mommy. I'm madly in love with you.

I love you, Mirabel!

Love,
Mama