100 Days

In some cultures - none of which we belong to, and cooptation being generally frowned upon, but we nevertheless feel compelled to take note - the first 100 days marks an important milestone in a baby's life. At this moment the baby is named, or thrown a party. It is partly because this is the moment when a baby isn't a fragile newborn anymore, and you are robust enough now that I can see that. You have stolid little legs, muscles in your shoulders, you are looking around at the world, you are waving your arms. I can see you being curious. Your legs kick when you are agitated or excited or happy to be awake. You are coming into your personhood.

I must have sensed it, too, because I had trouble sleeping last night, and found myself awake at one in the morning, thumbing through pictures of you and me in the first minutes and days that you were born. What's amazing is that you are yourself, clearly - your face is your face, your yawns, your expressions - but you are still so nascent. Tiny, slim little legs, hands swallowed by newborn-sized shirt sleeves. So small that when I first tried to nurse you, in the hospital, I feared my nipple was too big for your mouth.

So here we are, your first hundred days. We spent today at home as we usually do, reading books with Manamana, napping on my lap on the sofa, riding around the house on Daddy's chest. You watched Daddy vacuum dog hair off the blue carpet, and then I put you in a sweater knitted by our next door neighbor and heaped you with baby blankets and we went to your first music class. You stared in wonder at all the toddlers, many of whom smiled and clapped and cooed at you, because babies love other babies, especially little ones like you. You didn't cry, which amazed me. Just took it all in, watching, wide eyed, and by the end waving your arms a bit, seeming to get into the spirit of things. This getting into the spirit of things is your main purpose, and I am loving watching it unfold.

And loving watching you.