Pony my love,
You are 4 months old. You were fine this time, when you got your shots. Thank God for that.
You sleep with one hand behind your head. Sometimes two. It makes you look like you are resting on a chaise lounge.
When we hold you, you keep your arms open, hands outstretched, grasping the world, if you could.
You don’t like certain people, and you aren’t shy about letting them know. Kind of like me.
You ate your first food at your God Mum’s house. It was leek and potato soup. You liked it. Then the next day your Papa and I gave you some avocado. You liked that too.
You drink milk from a sippy cup designed for a 9 month old. You like it much more than those wretched bottles we kept trying to force upon you. You must be relieved. You seem so.
You love watching people talk. It seems to fascinate you. I think it entertains you more than any jumparoo ever could.
You love to talk. You talked right over the pediatrician during our visit, the entire visit.
You are long and lean, he said.
You laughed when I massaged the bottom of your feet tonight. That has never happened before.
You were wonderful for Irene, while your Dad and I had our first date since you were born. I thought about you the whole time. I promised your Dad I would get better about letting go. We went to dinner and then to a movie. It had George Clooney in it. He’s a damn fine actor.
We got the house on The Mount. I think you are going to like it there.
I love you so much. I can’t even describe how much. I get it now, what it means to have family, and watching movies or hearing tragic stories about loss is too difficult for me these days. I don’t ever want to lose you or your Dad. I don’t know if I could survive that. I’m not that strong.