Seven Weeks

Happy seven weeks old, Succotash! You are at present napping in your baby pouf after a hearty morning's several breakfasts. In a little bit I will change you out of comfy pajamas and into comfy pajama-like clothing to go up the street for lunch with a friend you have never met, who just got a new job at Penguin Random House. And then while a team of professional woman cleans our apartment you and I will find a way to amuse ourselves, as it is sunny and sixty degrees today. Will I have the energy to walk you in your stroller all the way to Central Park zoo? Will we go back to Madison Square and watch the big kids play on the playground? Will we go to Bryant Park and watch the ice skaters and avoid buying Christmas-themed tchotchkes? Only time will tell.

You are getting chubby. You have round cheeks and almost three chins. You have started smiling at me, and the world in general. You no longer flip out when having your diaper changed, and when you are especially poopy, you find it intriguing when I rinse your personal bits under the kitchen faucet, which seems faster than going through a whole box of wipes.

On Thursday you will have your first Thanksgiving, with your two godless parents, who you will be meeting for the first time, and your friend K, who is expecting a baby friend for you. You will smell cranberries cooking on the stove, and taste them faintly when you nestle into me at the dinner table.

I miss you when I sleep.

And that is where things stand on this, your seventh week of life.