Week 8: The Finley Files

Hi Finners, Let's start by listing all your nicknames: Fin, Finners, Finster, Miss Magoo, munchkin, muffin, cupcake, honey, schnookums, Yoda, princess, shrimp, cricket, paco, boogernose, bug, sugar... the list goes on. Anything that sounds like it should be slathered in syrup or eaten by a toad. You are so loved, everyone has to have their own pet name to call you, their own special word that means "Fin, you're a doll." A word is worth a thousand pictures, a thousand thoughts. You should see the way Grandpa looks at you when he calls you Bozo.

You are eating larger amounts and sleeping for longer stretches. Your crib is an antique--one that all the babies in our family have slept in for generations. You've slept in it a total of three nights. Every night you sleep next to me, and I get to wake up to your chirp and your kicking. We put some bird silhouettes up on our wall, and you crane your neck when you eat to look at them. Whatever it takes to make you smile.

You're quite the lady. Check out your pinkies, how you fall asleep. But I see a wild side in your eyes. You're like me that way. And my ultimate rebellion against anything safe, anything cliche, anything orderly, was having you.

We started going on walks in your cute owl stroller. President Obama was so kind and made a bike path behind our house for us to have long, safe, dry walks. You love to stare up at the big blue sky, the trees, hear the birds chirp and the dogs bark... Then you zonk peacefully while Mommy huffs and puffs to Prince. I'm trying to get back into shape for when your days of running around the park come.

You're starting to grow out of your newborn clothes, which breaks my heart. Yet at the same time, I'm thrilled that you're filling out. Your thighs have rolls, your tummy is round, and your cheeks--well, they're officially jowls. But your arms and wrists are dainty, dainty, dainty.

See? You only have a few more weeks to wear your high tops.

We went out to eat to celebrate your aunt Emma's eighth birthday. The minute my food arrived you cried to be fed. Your timing is impeccable, by the way. I took you out to the car to nurse, and I had... A Moment. I miss some things about being child-free. I miss responsibility being an option. I miss my flat stomach. I miss being completely selfish. But I'm glad I gave those things away for you. Some things have to change, but not everything. I have to run out of the restaurant to feed you, and my food is cold when I come back. But I always get to come back. And I get you.

Your dad loves you. I don't ever want you to doubt that. I want him to be around as you grow up, just like my dad was for me. And I want to watch. I want to come home and find you on his shoulders. I want us to be a family.

Every day with you makes me appreciate my own parents so much more. My own parents still listen to me ramble until my stories are exhausted and I have nothing left to say but silence. I cannot wait until that's you, babbling on and on, telling me every thought that pops into your head, explaining to me how you feel about your world. I hope I am just like my parents. It doesn't scare me that I may turn into my mother; it sounds awesome.

My favorite part of the day is when we're up in the morning. You give me the mommy smile, the one I've seen hundreds of babies do--the squinty eyes, turning the head coyly, mouth wide open, kicking the legs because all that emotion and love pours from the head to the toes. It's a smile only mommies can elicit, and I get them when I first open my eyes. I'm so lucky. Thank you.

I love you more than Barnes and Noble, sharks, brownies, That 70s Show, and rainy days.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Blowout count for the week? Four. Total you rolled in? One. Total you leaked on Reilly? One.