She will be seven months on Friday.
She loves avocado and bananas and sweet potatoes.
She gets distracted if I try to nurse her anywhere other than a quiet room.
She laughs when I kiss her tummy and we play “So Big.”
Her eyes are huge.
They are no longer blue; the color is somewhere between gray and brown.
She blinks her eyelashes like a doll.
She gleefully splashes water out of her tub and onto the counter and the floor around her.
She hated her first swim class. And the loud sounds of the crowd at a her first baseball game.
She is quick to greet friends and strangers.
But she protests if I leave her with anyone other than her dad.
She prefers to play with her brother’s toys—hammers and screwdrivers and trucks are more entertaining than teethers and hanging toys.
She smiles when she sees me.
She fusses at her father if he doesn’t greet her as soon as he walks in the door.
Her brother calls her “Baby Monster” because she knocks down his trains and blocks.
She is focusing all of her energy on crawling.
She is desperate to explore.
Teething is agony.
Two nights ago, for the first time in two months, she slept through the night again. I was disoriented and concerned when I woke up in the morning.
I haven’t napped next to her on the sofa in many, many weeks.
And I miss it.
Where did the time go?