Dear Miss Skye,
It seems like just yesterday the doctor was peering into my cervix and yelling, “Good job! I see her head! Wow… she’s got a lot of hair.” I remember a look of concern briefly crossed your Grandma Kirby’s face, as she no doubt envisioned you making your grand entrance into the world resembling a miniature-sized Marv Albert. Not that there would have been anything wrong with that. You still would have been the most gorgeous baby in the world to me. My beautiful, little Marv Junior.
But alas, you came out with what I would call the standard amount of hair, hair that you sort of lost, then sort of grew back, leaving you with a reverse mullet for months. “Party in the front, business in the back,” your dad would often laugh. Not that there was anything wrong with that. You were still the most gorgeous baby in the world to me. My beautiful, little George Costanza-turned-Billy Ray Cyrus Junior.
Now, at eight months old, your hair has grown in quite nicely. Not that anybody would know, because I enjoy covering your head with baby hats, especially baby bonnets. Even though I’m sure you would prefer a trendier newsboy cap or fedora like Demi Lovato wears (I totally had to google that), you kindly indulge my baby bonnet obsession. In fact, you’re easygoing about pretty much everything. Your daycare teachers rave that you’re a “pure pleasure” who rarely cries, able to play with the other babies or just entertain yourself if need be.
A “pure pleasure…?” Clearly, you take after your mama.
I love how you smile after you sneeze. Which you often do. Sneeze, that is. AND smile for that matter. You even smile for the Starbucks barista now; you have no idea how vindicated I feel after months of insisting, “She usually smiles all the time. REALLY! Smile for the nice lady, Skye, smile!” as you listlessly stared at the barista, open-mouthed — then smiled the second we walked out the door.
You not only smile at strangers now, but you also babble happily nonstop, clap and wave (which looks more like a, um, Nazi salute… but we’ll work on bending that elbow, girl) — two recent milestones that you are quite proud of. And it’s no wonder, what with your father and I squealing, “Look at you clap! Yay! You are a GENIUS!” and clapping back at you every time you put your hands together.
Hell, we’ll probably submit you to Mensa when you poop in the toilet.
You are a bit of a mommy’s girl at the moment, Miss Skye, a fact I try hard to conceal around your dad because that’s the kind of sensitive wife I am. No! I kid! I shamelessly revel in every single baby hug, kiss and outstretched arm in my direction, because I know it’s only a matter of time till you are throwing my “lame” bonnets in my face and running into your dad‘s arms. Seriously. It’s only a matter of time till you are running, period — you are already army-crawling your way around the floor. Which makes me both proud and nervous as hell. Buh-bye, bookshelves and cats’ tails. Also, NO, I did not say “hell.” HECK. I said NERVOUS AS HECK.
Ugh. I am SO going to miss The Freedom to Curse.
But you are worth it, Miss Skye. Censored language and all. You are, as I told your father this evening, “delicious.” If I could bottle you up at this age, I totally would, and take a whiff of you every so often during the terrible teens. Does that sound creepy? Probably. Almost as creepy as your dad and I voyeuristically watching you on the video monitor and giggling as you sleep with your butt up in the air.
Not that we would, um, EVER spend our Saturday nights doing that. *Ahem*
Happy Eight Months, Miss Skye! Life with you just keeps getting better.
Love you like heck,