Week 6: The Finley Files

Dear Finley,
I know this is a little bit late, but guess what? You take up a lot of my time. No resentment, just the facts. Since I brought you home from the hospital, I have been away from you for 35 minutes, breastfed you at least 450 times, changed 300 of your diapers, and been late posting your weekly updates ONCE. Not too shabby.
Also, you might note that there isn't a picture here to represent week 6. Again, so sorry. What can I say? I've been too busy cuddling with you to snap a shot of you this week. Someday you'll understand. Until then, so sorry I'm a funsucker who is ruining your life. In English, we call that "mom."

So... the word of the week would be INTERACTION. Yes. Now you smile when we smile. You listen when we talk. You look at the pictures on the wall and care about the faces. You like your routines. We play our "kick kick kick" game every morning, and you wail if I forget.

You're holding your head up pretty well. You hate tummy time, though. I stick you on your tummy and encourage you to lift your huge Charlie Brown noggin, and you just lie there screaming like a slug in pink stretchy pants. You'll do it when you're ready, I know. But please forgive me for continuing to try.

You're in the process of discovering--your hands, your feet, your voice. When you make the connection that it was, indeed, you who made that squawk, your eyes widen and you look at me like, "What the hell was that?" Yes, it was you, little one. And I am so excited for the upcoming days of babbling we have ahead.

You have one eye that likes to be a bit lazy. I'm not worried yet--you still are learning about your muscles. But until you figure it out, you are COCKEYED BABY! And you're beautiful. We just giggle at your mismatched eyes and call you Gomer.

We've been watching House with Aunt Reilly every night, and you love to hang out on her chest, snoozing while Momma loads up on baked goods and Doritos. But when we watch 24 and you hear the gunshots, you fuss. You hate the sound of violence, and so do I. I used to be able to handle it, darling, but now that I'm a mommy, I recoil a little at the body count in 24. Guys getting shot, left and right, dropping like flies... In my mind I scoff at myself, so sensitive now to such a silly show. And I think I know why--moms understand how much goes into growing a person, raising them, getting them from zygote to adult. When even the villain's seemingly insignificant goons are just decimated, it wears on me. Those guys have mommies. Those guys may be the evil "bad guys," but every life is precious.

That's just one of the many things you've changed about me. I also now like pink (well, for you, not for me). Love songs are not just for lovers--they're praises of adoration from mother to baby. Even that book I started writing took a backseat, because time I spent writing meant time I missed eating your toes.

Fin, what a great, fun week. Every week I say that, I know, but it's how I feel. Whatever age you're at is my favorite age. Thanks for being such a sweetheart. You're softening me. And believe me, I needed it.
I love you.

Love always,
Mommy

P.S. I haven't spilled on you once this week.