One Month

Today you are one month old. At the moment you are asleep on your grandmother, and what's most remarkable about you is your voracious appetite. You would be like a barnacle on my boob 24 hours a day if I could handle it. Alas, I can only handle about 20, so the rest of the time you are being given bottles. You have become expert at transforming milk into rolls of chub under your chin. Today you are zipped into the soft onesie patterned in little fishing boats that I bought to take you home from the hospital in. One month ago it was loose on you. Today you fill it out with a round little belly and kicky little feet and legs that are at least an inch longer. Your grandfather, my dad, tried measuring you yesterday and theorizes that you are now about 21 inches long. We will take you back to the pediatrician on Thursday for confirmation of this theory.

I am starting to go stir-crazy in the apartment, but your father is very worried about recent measles outbreaks in New York City, and so gets panicky and obstinate if I suggest taking you to an event more contained or precise than a stroller ride to the park until after you have had your shots. Today I will take your grandmother - she has recently switched from wanting to be called "Oma" to wanting to be called "Manamana," which is much cuter, and inspire by what your friend Christopher calls one of his grandmothers, from a song by the Muppets - and you in your stroller bassinet thing over to the baby Gap, where we will spend the gift certificate that the co-op board of our apartment gave us when you were born. We will obtain larger baby clothes, as last week in what felt like the span of two or three days you abruptly outgrew nearly all of your newborn sized clothing. They have been given to Ultragotha, who is set to arrive in January, who is probably going to be named Peter, and with whom you - we hope - will spend your childhood sailing in the summers.

My parents brought some family photographs. You can see a picture of me going to preschool if you want, carrying a lunchbox nearly as big as me, and a half a head taller than the other girls in my carpool. You can see a picture of me at around six, with my parents, taken for church, my mother in a plaid skirt and slim and smiling. There is also a picture of me at the moment of moving from babyhood to toddler, about 1 year old, in a dress and bowl haircut with a toy mushroom with bells, smiling.

"See?" I wrote to your father as I forwarded an image of the old photo. "I told you he looks like me."