The Eighth Month

I have been a mother for eight months today, which means Em has been here almost as long as I waited for her to arrive.

But not nearly as long as I wished for her; longed for her.

For all those years I dreamed of a snuggly, balled-up, squinty newborn with a mewling cry. I got my wish. But no one told me how fast those days would come and go. How quickly she'd grow up, and assert her independence, and resemble a toddler more than an infant. I look at her and I don't see Baby; I see Child.

I also see my husband and myself, in a whole other person I could never have imagined. Beautiful blue eyes, fluffy flyaway hair, a maniaical, throaty laugh. I see a wide stubborn streak, a love for music, an inquisitive mind. She rolls over only on her own terms. She hates tummy time. I suspect she will skip crawling and go right for the walking... she must stand, oh yes, she must. You are a fool to assume she might sit with you.

She says ba,ba,ba when she's happy or just babbling. She says Ma,Ma,Ma when she's sad or upset or lonely. She knows the difference.

She is the difference.

I love you, Em.