Dearest Boo~

Look!  I forgot to write to you on the completion of your second month into your first trip around the sun.  I would apologize, offer excuses, but babe:  this is just the way it is.  Today at the doctor’s office, I noticed a little skid mark in your diaper while she was examining you.  I almost went to change it, but the doctor said, “You’re not really going to do that, are you?  I  mean, she *is* your third one:  it’s gonna take a lot more than that to necessitate a change.”

Which, apparently, you were either offended by, or realized the lengths it took to get you out of that diaper, because a few moments later you unloaded into that size one huggies in a way that makes your brothers and three generations of Gerick men that I’ve been blessed to know proud.  God bless “flex with you” tabs.

Dear little one, I’m sorry that you’re the third one, and I’m not.  I’m sorry that you may sit in your diaper longer; I’m not sorry that we’re the fastest and most efficient in changing yours having changed two previous bums in the years beforehand.  I’m sorry that the more mobile and louder children take away from our potential alone time; I’m not sorry that you have two older brothers who adore you and ask to talk to you very first thing in the morning, saving their smiles for you and their grumpies for the old people stumbling around the house.  I’m sorry that you’ve got a mama who is quite ready to be done sharing body parts with little people; I’m not sorry that you will get to taste delicious home cooking as the Mama has had more years under her belt to figure out the answer to the eternal question:  “What’s to eat?”  I’m sorry that not all your clothes/toys/books/parents will be new; I’m not sorry that your hand-me-downs have been worn by people who like you, your toys tested and broken in and found pleasing, your books to be so ingrained into you because you’ve heard them before you were born, and your parents (hopefully) to be a little more mellow and a lot more loving.

To quote “A Knight’s Tale” (again, that movie Mama was going to watch before having you, except you had a more pressing schedule in mind):  “You have been weighed, you have been measured …”, but you have not “been found wanting.”  I thought for *certain* you were around the 12lb mark:  I mean, look at those cheeks!  Apparently they are hollow cheeks, to go along with your hollow legs, and your hollow arms, and your hollow bum (which you did *after* your measurements:  goober).   You have one head that is 15 inches; one body that is 21.5 inches, and one weight that is … 9.7lb.  You seem to take your nickname of “Little Miss” very seriously.  Percentile ranges:  25th/10th/10th.  Beloved Dr. Tami’s comment:  “Well, she’s certainly well-proportioned.”  I had the same feeling when boys would say I was “so funny” or “a great listener” or “someone they could really talk to” – generally about the girl they were pining after.

I have a friend who births children who haven’t regularly registered on the percentile scales.  The doctors have sent my friend’s kids through countless tests, worried that something is wrong with them, rather than recognizing their true nature:  that of Pocket People.  So, worried that our doctor would start using phrases like “supplement” and “sweat test” and “feeding tubes are just like the latest rage in body adornment”, I got *that* *look* on my face:  that “I have two boys I chase around all day, I haven’t slept in months, and if you tell me I have to drive up to Portland to have people poke and prod at my precious little bundle just because she’s precious and little and a bundle, well let me tell you:  NO.”

Dr. Tami is perceptive, because instead of mentioning those phrases and endangering her pleasantly impending lunch hour, she spent the time reassuring me that everything is fine, that you are on the scale, that you’re just a precious little bundle, and the next step if there’s concern is to see a lactation consultant (I’m “sure” she wasn’t trying to dump the crazy sleep-deprived mother-of-two-boys-one-of-which-was-madly-twirling-on-a-chair-while-the-other-consumed-3/4s-of-a-bag-0f-veggie-booty-by-himself-during-the-waiting-time off on the lactation consultants, right? ….).

And darling, I’m sorry that I don’t have time to sit with you and make you the roly poly baby of my dreams.  But honestly, in the long run, being little and quick will probably get you farther … hiding from brothers, sneaking around unnoticed, stealing your dad’s clothes (not that daughters ever like to “borrow” their dad’s big shirts … or sweatshirts … or super warm and fuzzy hiking socks …), sitting with your bros in the back seat, sitting on dad’s lap, getting up on the counter to help me bake cookies, getting thrown in the air long after your brothers have heard, “You’re too big!”

Be who you were created to be, Little One, and I’ll try to do the same.

Love, Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings