Seven Months

Dear Miriam,

You’re seven months old today and, frankly, you’re miserable. I’m sorry. Who knew seven months was such a hard age to be?

You hate that new tooth—you know the one. Bottom, front, left. It just broke through a day or two ago and I thought your mood would improve after that. But it hasn’t. You’re still not sleeping well and you spend most of your time trying to grind it away. I’m sorry, baby, but it isn’t going anywhere. In fact, you’re going to get more. It wasn't my idea, okay?

You hate that you can’t crawl. You are so close and yet so far. I guess it’s the hardwood floors holding you back. You are great at getting up on your hands and knees and rocking back and forth on any soft surface and want to be mobile so badly but just can’t bring yourself to get up off the floor. I guess you’re pretty smart then, aren’t you? You know that face planting on the floor is loads different from doing so on Mom and Dad’s big, comfy bed. Still, it makes you mad.

Also, you hate your bed. I’m sorry about that, too, but I had to take away your bassinet. One day not too long ago you reached out of your bassinet and pulled my hair while I was sleeping. Things only progressed from there and soon you were almost crawling into bed with us, which is fine because that’s where you usually sleep, anyway, but I didn’t want you accidentally falling out of the bassinet on the rare occasion that you do sleep in your own bed.

You really hate that you’re so close to the ground, I think. You feel too far away from us now, which is why you won’t sleep in your bed at all even though you’re technically still right beside us.

This one thing you love: you can now pull yourself up onto coffee tables and things in order to get your favourite contraband items (which means we’ve had to find new places to keep things): papers and books and Rachel’s treasures.

Eating is a challenge for you. You are a picky eater like your father, I think. You act all excited to eat new things but then hate everything you try. So far you like rice cereal and rice cereal mixed with peaches, you like watermelon and cucumbers, which is funny since your father detests those foods. You also like mashed potatoes with gravy and tonight you were singing glory hallelujahs to kidney beans.

However, you don’t like plain peaches or broccoli or carrots or foul or spaghetti sauce or oatmeal or pretty much anything else you’ve tried.

That’s fine because I’m planning on mostly breastfeeding you for at least another month and you have no teeth, anyway. Well, you have one tooth. Still. There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to branch out and try new things. Solid things. But for you, we’ll wait.

What I don’t understand, though, is why you enjoy licking the floor so much. Every time you’re sitting on the floor you fold in half to give it a little lick—the bath tub? *lick* The cement outside? *lick* The wood floors? *lick* The carpet at the church villa? *lick* The sandbox? *lick*

You actually like sand a whole lot. After we got home from Ain Sokhna with Bumpa and Auntie Josie you were pooping out sand for a week. And you ate enough sand at the Maadi House last week to fill your potty a few times with a little layer of silt.

And yet I can’t get you to open up for a spoonful of oatmeal.

Actually, I can get you to open up…I just can’t get you to swallow it once it is inside your mouth. You screw up your little face like I just fed you poison and then spit it out.

Oh, well. We think you’re cute and sweet and fun to be around so we’ll keep you.

Also, you reach for me now. I like that. And I love you.

Love,

Mommy