Faith was 6 months on May 1st.
Some 6 months (okay, almost 7 months) stats:
15 pounds (and more importantly maintenance of the 20th percentile)
28 inches
Champion sleeper, down to 2 naps a day and 13 hours at night.
Not so good eater—a combination of breastmilk (thank you alfalfa, fenugreek and a good hospital pump), formula, baby food and lots of crusts and crackers shoved in her hands to keep her happy.
Sitting well, finally
EXTREMELY happy…if entertained.
Can blow raspberries, fake cough and do this high pitch scream on command.
Not-so-good with babysitters and holders at church. We’re working on it.
Loved and super fun all the time.
Before she was six months, I was up all night, training her to sleep, Baby-Bjorning, wiping spit up, nursing, trying to retain my milk supply, shielding her from over-loving siblings, attempting to run errands in that infinitesimal space between baby’s naps, feedings and kindergarten drop-off, bemoaning and working off the baby-weight, keeping up with the lives of her 4 other siblings and, of course, kissing, biting, nuzzling, rocking, lullaby-ing, tickling and strolling.
And I was really really really trying to appreciate, enjoy, soak in this possible last baby.
And then she was 6 months. What? …6 months is one half of a year. An actual age. How did my newborn become an actual age?
I promise I did not soak it up enough. And, still, it’s here.
I was kind of wishing I’d feel more relief or something. Not this achy, where-did-it-go and am-I-really-not-going-to-have-another-perfectly-yummy-looking-smushy-baby-who-thinks-I’m-the-greatest-thing-that-ever-lived feeling.
I commented to Ryan the other day: “If someone could invent a Have Your Child At Any Age For A Few Hours machine, I would pay thousands of dollars for it, in a second.” Don’t you agree?
Lucky for me, my friend Randi (here for her family blog, here for her photo website)takes these kinds of pictures, so I can remember exactly how sweet she was.
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