The “good baby”

The “good baby”

My Millie.

Just this morning I walked in on you sleeping at 9am to find a cat’s tail draped across your face like a furry moustache. You all tucked in and the two of you dozing. I suppose it would have been more of a Hallmark moment were it not for her furry arse in your ear. Either way, I just had to get a picture.

But, by the time I found the camera the cat had spun around – I do so hope you poked her in the bum, because you were smiling in your sleep and the cat seemed pissed off. Anyway, just as that funny moment would have otherwise vanished had I not written it here, I fear this whole blissful stage of time with you will too, if not for me writing now, because your baby book is certainly not your sister’s big pimping version.

And so, baby number two, this is for you. Because right in this moment, you are my sweet and simple love.

At this moment in time, nearly eight months in age, you can do little but sit on your ass and grin. I do specialize in stationary children, and you fit this bill perfectly. You cannot walk and you cannot crawl, and every attempt you make to do so results in me promptly picking you up (you know I’m not ready for that shit yet). You pivot but you do not tip, and for this I am very grateful. It means I can learn how to use Instagram or change pissy bed sheets without worrying you could give yourself a concussion, and so for that I am grateful.

Your ability to entertain yourself with garbage is on-point. Toys be damned. Tree bark scraps from the woodpile, bottle caps, chip bags and Service Canada envelopes are among your very favourites to explore, aside from straight up dirt. I used to buy Wren toys or books as a baby, but now when I need five minutes to wash my armpits, I pull things from the recycling, give ‘em a wipe, and you’re ready to go.

Right here in this moment in time you don’t know how to grab yet, you just reach and give a gentle pat. So I let you explore your fine motor skills while I eat an entire blueberry pie to myself, as I did yesterday, in broad daylight. You are none the wiser for this, so I have not yet needed to hide or eat in the bathroom once. I appreciate you for this. Truly, I do.

I am still able to trick you into being entertained by my boobs. Every time. So if I get a yearning to watch another season of Ink Master or an episode of Making a Murderer, I just pop ya on there. I get my fix of obscene potty-mouthed men, and you get yesterday’s pie. Win, boob-berry win.

Your bum isn’t picky either. I used to spend many evenings stuffing cloth diapers with matching liners for your big sister just so. Now, a facecloth or a straight-up menstrual pad tucked into your diaper shells, I have come to find, will do. I change you half as often, therefore do diaper laundry next to never, and yet your butt has yet to complain. I do thank you for your healthy and easygoing nether regions.

Your face always has a runny snot sliding out of it, but I do believe it only adds to your charm. You just slurp it up before I think to find a sleeve to wipe it on, and you do it without complaint. In fact, you love that stuff, you salty dog, you. Your sister brings you home great gifts of illness from school on the daily, and you are the cold virus champion of the world. Thanks for that.

My round and chubby baby, I used to put a whole lot of thought into what proteins, legumes and vegetables I’d feed our family when Wren was a baby. Unfortunately for you, this was before your time. To date, you’ve already eaten onion rings, french fries, pepperoni, ice cream and chocolate. Your sister gets in the sharing spirit once every month and I don’t want to discourage it, so yeah, I am sorry to your greasy gut flora, but am at least educated to know you have the same great tendency towards diabetes as I.

My snuggly one, you laugh at the stupidest stuff. Forget the effort that is playing peek-a-boo, you’re into it when the cat walks by, when the fridge opens or when Wren bops you over the head aggressively with a foreign object. Thanks for not being into reading, writing or the arts.

You are simply happy to be part of our action.

Sweet Mill, for us your smile is contagious and your rolls delicious. Sinking my fingers into your juicy thighs is my greatest joy and smelling your neck is my drug. The way you are at ease with complete strangers is both wonderful and worrisome, and your ability to blend into the background is a beautiful blessing when I have to be cleaning toothpaste off a toilet seat.

Don’t get me wrong, I was up with you six times last night, and you shit up your back literally every single morning. Your rapid-fire lizard-like tongue is oddly alarming and you produce a hell of a lot of ear gunk. You hate clothing and car seats, and so you have your moments. But you are my easier, dare I say it, “easy baby.”

I love my two girls equally, but differently. My past pregnant self couldn’t see it, but like the way one can love both the day or night, you two both fill a place in my heart.

My number two, your bulky butt fits my expanding hip like a glove. Thanks for being one hell of a blissful babe.

Now, I should probably wipe the cat bum off your finger.



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