She is laughter and light.
She giggles when I change her diaper, when I tickle her belly, when we play “So Big.”
She smiles at friends, new and old.
She wiggles as she sees me coming.
She beams when her father or brother enter her line of sight.
She wants to hold my hand and moans a funny guttural sound as she drifts to sleep.
She loves to nurse.
She watches the way we eat.
Her hands reach for everything.
She rolls, as if involuntarily, the instant I lay her on her back. She has forgotten that she can roll in the other direction.
She inches on the floor and gets angry when she can’t reach her destination.
She squawks when she’s happy. And when she’s frustrated.
She is plump and soft.
Even her fingers, so long and elegant when she was born, are chubby.
She is teething. She mouths constantly.
Her pain sometimes keeps her—and us—awake.
She removes her pacifier from her mouth. And she tries to put it in backwards.
She protests when I set her down and when I leave the room and when she is alone.
She is fascinated by our dogs. And she pulls their hair too hard.
She listens to books.
She enjoys the ring sling and the playmat and the Exersaucer.
Tonight, as I rocked her, her breath slowed and her eyelids dropped.
Her hand rested in mine, and her body grew heavy.
She was peaceful and vulnerable, trusting and innocent.
Rock by rock, she fell asleep in my arms.
She is five months old.
How has it been five months?