On Our Way To Crazy

Dear Campbell,

Oh, baby girl. I don’t even know what to say anymore. You are so grown up these days. My heart can’t take it.

Dear Campbell,

Being your mom has had a super weird and unexpected side effect in my life. I don’t just see people anymore. I see people who were once somebody’s baby. The checkout guy at Target who is moving so slow it might kill me? He was somebody’s baby. The upstairs neighbor with cement blocks for feet? He was somebody’s baby. The jerky teenage boy who is tormenting one of my youth girls? Somebody’s baby.

I know it’s not universal, but in general… one time somebody was really excited that that person was crawling, laughing, clapping for the first time. Somebody rocked them to sleep and dried their tears and wiped their booty. Somebody helped them learn how to eat solid food and dragged them away from the outlet for the thousandth time and tried to get dressed while they hung onto their legs for dear life.

This realization has shaken me up, sweet girl. I have told you before that my default is to be cynical, jaded, sarcastic. But having you in my life has given me some perspective, I think. I’m quicker to give grace, to laugh things off. I have more room for joy, earnestness, trying. It’s not perfect, but it’s growing. You’re cracking open my shell, my defenses.

Because who could be jaded with you bouncing around them? With your clapping, and your shrugging, and your head shaking no, no, no, but with a grin that says the opposite. You’re high-fiving and saying “uh-ohhhhh” and trying so hard to stand unassisted. And the dancing! Oh, the dancing. You bounce and wiggle and nod your head and shake your legs and it is too much for me. TOO MUCH.

Month ten has been a pretty crazy one. In the course of three weeks we sold our house and moved into an apartment, which was pretty life-altering for me and your dad but you have rolled with like nothing changed. The new place is bigger, with carpet and big windows and a low pantry shelf full of tupperware for you to play with. You are thrilled.

Life is starting to settle back into a rhythm that’s been missing for a while. Summer was hard, moving was hard, but now school has started and we are settled in and there’s a pattern to our days and weeks that we’ve desperately needed. Lots of things in my life are difficult these days, but you, my bug, are not. You are sleeping well and learning to nap better and eating everything and crawling, playing, exploring. We start every morning the same way: you squealing in the crib until the monitor wakes me up, me opening your door to find you standing waiting for me, smiling and bouncing. I am tired, so tired, tired in my bones, but that moment is one I will hold on to long after you’re big.

You make my heart happy, baby doll. This season has been saved by the shot of joy you bring into my days, hours, moments. Thank you for being awesome.

Love,
Mama

Dear Campbell,

It has taken me ten minutes to get ready to write this post. There were so many weird things going on with my computer screen and keyboard that I literally could not figure out how to get the internet open. I blame you for this. You and your obsessive love for anything with a screen or buttons you can mash down with your tiny but surprisingly strong hands.

If you’re not supposed to have it, you want it. You pass up any actual baby toy in favor of remote controls, cell phones, the monitor, computers, cords, lamps, the assorted electronics that surround the TV. We thought for a second we might be smarter than you and gave you a remote from an old DVD player to play with. But no. You knew. I’m pretty sure you rolled your eyes at me before you took off for the real thing.

Month nine has been a tough one, sweet girl. We went to youth camp, first of all, which was an experience I do not care to repeat. Big Mama came with us and you guys had a ball – napping and playing and talking to all the kids and reading and bathing and going for walks. I am jealous of the week you two had. My week was a little different. After spending all day chasing kids and dealing with drama and running all over creation and calming parents and cleaning wounds and dispensing medicine and advice and hugs, I would collapse on my bed only to be woken up by you every thirty seconds.

It wasn’t your fault, I know. You were in a new place and a strange bed surrounded by unfamiliar people. All I’m saying is that when I only have the opportunity for four hours of sleep, it’s not ideal to wake up three times in those four hours. To nurse a baby. Who has daggers for teeth.

But! We survived! And we survived the three week process of Getting Back On Schedule, although looking back at it from here I’m not sure how. Truly, the best thing I can say about July is that it is over and we are all still alive. Just last week someone asked me how camp went and before I could get out my standard, “It was great!”, I started crying and let loose on them about how it was possibly the worst string of days of my life. But we made it! Yay for August!

So here’s the thing about having a kid: it is super hard. And just when you think you have it pinned down and you think you’re doing pretty well, the game changes. It was hard when you were tiny and eating all the time and couldn’t really be put down. And then when you started rolling and and drooling and trying to eat the rugs and the dirt. And now you are mobile and into everything and yesterday I swear you disappeared right in front of my eyes and then I found you under the crib. I function on less sleep than I ever thought possible and it has taken me over a month to read The Princess Bride. Life is not as it once was.

But here’s the other thing: it is super awesome. Every day you learn something new. When you are in a room and I stick my head around the door, your face lights up and my heart soars to the heavens. You have your own little language and you MEAN what you SAY. Your clothes are tiny and adorable. I could sit and watch you explore and crawl and pull up and giggle all day long. You love people, especially your dad. When he puts you to bed I stand at the door and listen to the two of you – talking, laughing, singing the Avett Brothers, reading the dinosaur book – and I can’t figure out what we ever did before you came along.

I mean, we slept a lot. But besides that.

You are our bug, our peanut, our sugar, our baby doll, our sweet pea, our Campbell Lou. And we wouldn’t change a single thing.

Love,
Mama

Dear Campbell,

So you are basically a grown up now. You are crawling, for one thing. You are mobile and you are EVERYWHERE. Most babies crawl on both knees, but not you, girl. You use one knee and one foot, resulting in a lopsided scramble move that is both efficient and hilarious. You are no longer interested in anything you can reach from where you are, but every leaf, every floor vent, every piece of fuzz across the room is the most fascinating thing that’s ever existed and you will not rest until you get to it and put it in your mouth.

You are also pulling up on everything you see. The floor is boring and not good enough for you. The sofa, the entertainment center, my leg, the ottoman in your room with the wheels on it that does not stay put no matter how mad you get. You need to be tall and see, even if you can’t get yourself to where you want to be quite yet. There’s no disappointment quite like crawling to the sofa, pulling yourself up, and NOT finding a pile of remotes to chew on.

The other big development this month is teeth. Oh, girl. The teeth. You have six now, four on top and two on bottom, and they are tiny and sharp and make excellent weapons. They’ll attack anything that comes in their path – fingers, toys, furniture, other things. Things that, oh, I don’t know, FEED YOU. It’s not my favorite thing, that’s for sure. I love you more than my luggage but this has been a major challenge.

You went on your first plane ride and first vacation this month, too, to Colorado for your Grandpa and Juju’s 40th anniversary. I was super nervous about the plane, but you were a total rock star. You were great all week, rolling with the time change and the travel and the weird environment and a bunch of relative strangers all up in your business. You rode on a boat and went up a mountain and stayed in a hotel and were all-around an awesome kid.

I don’t mean to end each letter talking about how fun and exciting it is to have you around. And it is not all sunshine and rainbows, I don’t care what anybody says. You hate sleeping, you love yelling at inopportune times and in very public places, and I don’t know if I mentioned the TEETH but that is a SITUATION that I do not CARE FOR. But you have a smile that lights up a room, your sweet giggle makes your dad happier than I’ve ever seen him, you don’t cry when I sing the Avett Brothers to you. You fill my heart with joy, sweet girl, and I’m so glad you’re mine.

Love,
Mama

It was traumatic, at least for your dad and me. You were mostly unfazed. After the initial shock (and two hour screamfest), we got some medicine in you, gave you a bath and put you down for a nap, and when you woke up you were the same happy baby you always are. Just covered in red spots and giant blisters. So far things are healing well and you are looking better. It remains to be seen if there will be any long-term effects, but we are hopeful and you are happy and it could have been so much worse. So we are thankful.

But! Enough about the noodles! Outside of The Incident, month seven has been pretty great. You are trying SO HARD to crawl. Your body is full of pent-up energy and if I could move your little arms and legs for you I would, just to give you (and me) some relief. You’ve taken the whole never-be-still thing to a whole new level this month as it now includes both sleeping and nursing time as well as all of the other time. The other day you had your feet planted in my lap, your butt up in the air, and you were nursing. I wasn’t supporting you with my hands at all. Just my boob.

This month we moved you from sleeping in the rocker next to our bed to the crib in your own room. We should have done it way sooner, but I just wasn’t ready. I liked being able to open my eyes and see you, reach out and rock you when you fussed, pick you up quickly when you were hungry. But it was time. You were outgrowing the rocker and we needed a little peace in our evening routine. So into the crib you went.

I was nervous about the transition, how you would do, if we would be up all night as you adjusted. We’d always had such a hard time getting you to fall asleep in the past. Turns out, shockingly, that we were the problem. We were holding you back, girl. You just needed your space. I had no idea one tiny person could cover so much ground in their sleep. Every time I check the monitor you are at the opposite end of the crib, feet in the air, rolled over on your stomach, sprawled with a limb in each direction. Middle two fingers on your left hand always in your mouth, hand upside down. It’s still a big challenge to actually get you to sleep, but once you’re out the sleep you’re actually getting is so much better. We’re learning.

Also new this month – solid food! We are taking the Baby-Led Weaning approach, skipping right over baby food and purees and going straight for the good stuff. So far you’ve tried your hand (and mouth) at: broccoli, sweet potatoes, cucumbers, hummus, strawberries, pineapple, all kinds of melon, yogurt, avocado and cheese. You love it. I spend the entire time with my heart in my throat waiting for you to choke. This does not bode well for when we teach you how to drive.

You continue to be so happy, so expressive, so curious and cheerful. Everything is exciting, everything is amazing, everything is screech-worthy. You are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, my sweet girl. Every day is an adventure and I’m so glad we’re in it together.

Love,
Mama

Dear Campbell,

Today is your six month birthday. Six months. SIX MONTHS. This feels like such a huge deal to me. Like a really big accomplishment. We made it! Six months! We are awesome at life!

This month has been a huge one for you. You have TWO teeth, you can sit up, you would literally roll across town if I would let you. You are laughing all the time, except for the times when you’re screeching at the top of your lungs. If I couldn’t see your face while you do it I would be convinced someone was poking you with sticks. But, no. Happy as can be. And screeching.

Still no cuddling or being still in any way. If I try to hold you against my chest you will plant your feet and kick off. The other day you rolled over mid-diaper change. If I don’t watch you like a hawk you’ll be under the sofa before we know it. You constantly drowning in drool, hanging out in soaked shirts with wet arms down to the elbow. You hate bibs, though, so we cycle through several outfits a day. Good thing your clothes are so cute.

It’s amazing to me how quickly you became the new normal. I knew our lives would change dramatically, and I knew it would be hard, but I still don’t quite believe it’s real. We go to bed by ten and are up at six (with a couple of interruptions for you and me). There’s an exersaucer in the living room, bottles all over the kitchen, a mesh loungy thing in the bathtub, a car seat in the rearview mirror. I have gotten awesome at baby nail clipping and nap shushing and speedy onesie changing.

The other night your dad and I were talking about you (real talk: we talk about you all the time) and he said that while he doesn’t want you to grow up, he can’t wait to talk to you. I am dying to know what goes on in your head. You are so full of life, so joyful, so happy and curious and excited to be wherever you are. I can be so cynical and negative sometimes, and it really gets me down. But it’s hard to feel that way when you’re staring at me and giggling. You’re a good influence on me.

I didn’t know how this mom thing would work out for me, baby girl. I’ve never been a kid person. I was so worried about how I would do, if I could keep it together. If I could still be me. But now I see that it doesn’t work like that, at least not so far. It’s not that I’m not me anymore. It’s that who I am has changed. Being a mom didn’t take away from that, it added to it. I’ve had to adjust some priorities for sure, and give some things up. I still don’t know exactly how to do and be everything I’d like. But I do know that I am thrilled that you’ll be a part of whatever comes next.

Sometimes when I look at you I am so excited about what’s next for you – solid foods, crawling, and then basically driving and going to college and starting an IRA. I can’t wait to learn more about who you are. But at the same time I wish I could slam on the brakes. You’re already so different. I look at your newborn pictures and I can barely remember you being that baby. I know that in no time I’ll have trouble remembering you at six months. And every day you gain more confidence, more independence, more experience. You’re testing the waters. Learning about the world around you. I love watching it and it breaks my heart at the same time.

Your Big Mama has a quote taped to her refrigerator that says, “Having a child is to forever have your heart go walking around outside your body.” You’re not walking quite yet, but yes. That. It’s just like that.

Love,
Mama

Dear Campbell,

OH, GIRL. This month has just been the best thing. Everything about you has gotten BIGGER and MORE AWESOME.

I feel like you really exploded this month. You are rolling over, first of all, like a total grown up. You’re tall and strong and loud, oh so loud. You have got some serious lung capacity. We’re in trouble when you start knowing words.

Any time you’re on the move, whether it’s in the car or on a walk, your eyes are open so wide and your head is turning 90 to nothing to take it all in. And the entire time you are ohhing and ahhing and cooing and squealing and talking to everything you see.

We went to your Aunt Chelsea and Uncle Josh’s wedding, which was super fun. We dragged you all over town and partied it up and you just rolled with it, being cool and looking fabulous. In fact, you stayed calm all week long, holding onto your frustrations and keeping them inside until 20 minutes before the wedding when you staged a MASSIVE MELTDOWN in our little dressing area. We were supposed to be taking family photos and putting final touches on makeup and outfits, and instead you were screaming and I was crying and you wouldn’t eat and I couldn’t find your dad and oh my gracious we almost missed the wedding. But we got it together and only a few people accidentally saw my boobs and you got some food and everything was great. You met all of your crazy family members and tons of our friends and it was a blast.

Your sleeping habits have been all over the map this month. Three hour nap, no nap, four hours at night, NINE hours a night. It’s a blast to have no idea what to expect when you lay down at night. But man, when you do sleep, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.

You love to ‘stand up’, you love to bounce around, you love to roll over and and kick your legs and flail around. You do not love to be still or cuddle or rest really in any manner at all. You are thrilled, THRILLED, when your dad comes into your line of sight. You will twist yourself like a contortionist to follow him around the room. Seeing the two of you together is one of my most favorite things about you being in our family.

It is so much fun to live with you, sweet girl.

Love,
Mama

Dear Campbell,

I want to start this month by telling you that you are awesome. You are hysterically funny, you are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen ever, you make crazy faces and squeal with the best of them and give heart-melting smiles.

I am putting that out there first because this is my fifth attempt to sit down and write this post today. I love you, and I would carry you to the moon and back, but maybe you let me sit you down for more than five seconds at a time every now and then. Or nap for more than 20 minutes. Just a thought.

Your dad and I have become expert baby-calmers. Or we would have, anyway, if any one thing worked more than twice in a row. The current list of tricks we try to use to help you settle down is as follows:

• turn on the faucet
• look in the mirror
• look outside
• go outside
• soothing sounds giraffe
• laying flat and looking at the ceiling fan
• diaper change
• clothing change
• remove all clothing
• sing
• sing “I’m Sexy and I Know It” (‘girl look at that baby’)
• make faces
• let you suck on our fingers
• put you in the carseat and swing you around
• put you in the carseat on the dryer
• put you in the carseat and go for a drive

Any one of those things, or combination of those things, could help you settle down at any given time. The problem is there’s no way to know which one will work when, so it’s a constant guessing game. You keep us on our toes, kid.

This month has been really fun because it feels like you know us now. There’s a difference in your response to just anyone verses one of us. You follow us around the room with your eyes. You brighten up when we come into your line of vision.

You love to grab my hair and your dad’s beard. You have a ninja death grip, girl, and have pulled more than a few hairs out of our heads. I like to think you just want our faces as close to yours as possible and that you’re not actually trying to cause physical pain.

Month four is also the Month of the Feet. You didn’t know you had them before, and now you can’t get enough. You love to lay on your back and pull your feet up to your mouth, one in each hand. You regularly have all five toes on one foot in your mouth, and you like to lick the bottoms of your feet. It would be weird if it wasn’t so freaking cute.

One of my favorite things about you is how you fully feel whatever you feel. If you’re happy, it’s smiles and laughs and squeals and arms waving. When you’re hungry, it’s both hands in the mouth. When you’re gassy, it’s both legs in the air, aiming that thing at whoever is closest to you. (Sorry.) When you’re relaxed, it’s all four limbs stretched straight out and wide eyes taking everything in. When you’re mad, it’s full-scale gut-busting screams that stretch until there is literally no air left in your lungs. You are not a mellow baby. You are loud and proud, my girl.

And even though I am exhausted, I could not be happier. Life is harder, more complicated, more work than it has ever been before. It’s hard to get all of my work done in the time you are with the sitter. It’s hard to function on such fragmented sleep. It’s hard to take time every day at work and at night when all I want to do is sleep to pump milk for you.

But it is so, so worth it. You rule, baby girl.

Love,
Mama