My daughter is eight months old today. We celebrated with a little chicken saagwala. What? Girl loves her spinach.
I’m slowly getting past the shock of new parenthood; its demands arranged firmly on my shoulders. I love it. I love being a mom. I love being a parent.
Let’s see – eight months, what is C3 up to? She’s crawling for sure – belly high up off the ground. She’s standing a lot and pulling herself up. We’re still feeding her purees, but she gets “real” dinner. I’m pushing a sippy cup, but so far it’s much more of a toy than a drinking device. She babbles, but I’ve yet to hear something that sounds like a real world. She laughs and giggles a lot: she’s a total ham.
We got some puppets from Ikea at Christmas, so I’ve made up stories about Penelope the Pig and Clementine the Chicken. They do wild and crazy things like try to ride a bike or make macaroni and cheese. They make her giggle and squirm with delight. At night, before she goes to bed, K and I whisper all the things we did during the day – the people she saw, the things she noticed. She smiles and wiggles her head and then closes her eyes. (Yes, we’re still co-sleeping. We tried the whole modified CIO thing and we just couldn’t do it. Both of us wanted the other one to take charge – and I just.. can’t, yet.)
And, finally – there’s theme for her first birthday party. I am incorrigible.