43

I am supposed to be working right now, while you are downstairs in the kitchen with your father. But I am stealing a moment to update your baby blog. Today I am 43 years old. I would never have predicted, when turning a nervous and pregnant 42 this day last year, that I would celebrate this birthday in self-imposed quarantine for a worldwide viral pandemic. But I could have predicted, if all went well, that I might celebrate this day by watching you eat your very first pureed avocado.

You are getting bigger, and still smiley, and we have thrown sleep training on the window on "pandemic rules," which means that all three of us are sleeping better, since you and I get to snuggle all night. Your smile is the first thing I see when I open my eyes every morning. I could not ask for a better gift.

I really must do some writing for work, while you are occupied downstairs watching your father mash avocado. In a minute he will summon me to come downstairs too. I can admit to missing having long unstructured blocks of time in which to think my own thoughts, but I also know that that time will gradually return as you become more and more autonomous. I also remind myself that you are only a baby for a very short time, all told. In two weeks you will be six months old. Half a year, in other words. Halfway to being a toddler. Now is the time of your babyhood. Right now. Today. When you are still small enough to carry and to nestle into the crook of my arm and to need nothing else but that to fall asleep.