Four Months

Dear Finley Mae,

You are one week shy of four months old. Your strong, demanding will, however, blasted through the front door about a month ago. And suddenly I am more in love with you than ever, because I know who you are. You're determined. You're smart. You're sensitive. You're sociable. You're hilarious.

Okay, so. Let's get some facts out of the way. You sleep like crap now. You nap for about fifteen minutes every two or three hours, and suddenly I'm that mom with the convenient haircut eating instant everything.

You coo and giggle and scream and babble and growl and do all sorts of fantastic noises with your little triangle mouth. But at heart, you're pretty stoic. Somber. Serious. Thoughtful. Curious.

The weather has suddenly clicked to spring, and for the first time in my own life, I want to spend every second outside soaking up sunshine. I've always been Madame Mim, hater of sunshine and bees and clouds and all things cheesy and happy. You've changed that. You've changed me.

In fact, taking care of you has given me the confidence to finally take care of myself. For you, Finley, and for myself, I'm going to earn that degree. At last.

You sleep next to me, next to my pillow, sprawled on your back with your arms in the air, completely peaceful. In the mornings, you are chipper and patient. I usually wake up to you talking to yourself, twiddling your thumbs, staring at me, waiting for me to open my eyes. Then you always smile.

Everyone keeps saying, "There was never a more loved baby than Finley." And they're probably right. But every time I see my own parents hold you, read kind words from my own friends praising your darling cheeks, I can't help but feel loved myself. We're supported so well, Fin. Buoyed up. Lifted into the sky by adoring family members who cannot get enough of you.

Like your aunts, Reilly, Hannah, and Emma, who all give me a short hello on their way over to pick you up, kiss your neck, admire your thighs.

Your sweet doting uncles, Reese, Raine, and Keaton, who play with you, make faces at you, tell you zombie stories and teach you basketball.

Your two sets of grandparents (lucky girl!) who read to you, snuggle you, sew for you, play with you...

Others, like Reese's Crystal and Hannah's Jeff, who give you the same greeting they give old friends.

And, of course, your parents. I love you more than Saturn loves its own rings. You are a laugh, a sage, a rainbow, a tulip, a bird...

Even when your GiGi pencils on eyebrows for you.

I love you, sweet girl. Thank you for choosing me to be your Mama.