Dear Truett,
Today you are one month old. One whole entire month. No, seriously. When someone asks me when you were born my first instinct is to answer, "Just the other day!" I can hardly wrap my brain around the fact that these past few weeks with you have passed so quickly, especially since as they develop and progress they do not feel like they are quickly passing at all. Did I mean to imply something negative in that last line? My answer would be no, except for the colic.
Ah yes, you celebrated the beginning of this anniversary by screaming half the morning and though we've grown used to some inconsolable, colicky, maybe it's gas, maybe it's just life fucking with us, screaming AT NIGHT, I was unprepared for this morning. Scream, scream, suck, red face, scrunched legs, SCREEAM! I have spent the last two hours reading about colic online while alternating you from my shoulder to my boobs, and the best part is that, according to the internet, colic is pretty much a mystery. It's like when I Google "are teeth whiteners safe while breast feeding?" and get seventeen different answers from God knows who, most of which contain grammar like this:
"I don't now...my pedeatrican says its allright, my dentist said better safe then sorry!"
Thanks. Your answer was entirely unhelpful. But no, keep posting to these message boards. I NEED A LITTLE MORE CONFUSION IN MY LIFE RIGHT NOW.
Mercifully, the screaming does not last forever and right afterwards you generally reward us by passing out cold. Usually with you mouth wide open which is so damn cute I can hardly stand it. And as frustrating as the screaming is for us, the worst part is knowing something is bothering you and we can't fix it. I just want to kick Colic's ass but the internet isn't cooperating.
Your aunt and two cousins visited last week and Summer commented that you move more than any other newborn she's met. Oh my God, I gave birth to your father. Even the neighbor commented, "your husband sure is energetic!" And while I am relieved and excited at how well you are thriving, I suppose this is God's idea of a little chuckle, a lazy mother with a child who can't sit still. You kick and thrash and scoot and it's usually nothing to do with colic. In fact, you can be in the best of moods and scootch your way up my chest in order to eat. You are a self-server, no waiting around for you and as I write this I am amazed at truly how much like your dad you already are. I am the type, should someone ask me to wait, who will wait and wait and wait because, shoot, this is a good show playing in the reception area anyway. Not your father. He will alternately pace, throw his hands in the air or by God go find the doctor himself.
While Cutchin was here visiting we had to make an unplanned trip to your doctor's office because your sweet little monster of a cousin had developed a terrible case of diaper rash and, while there, I asked if we could sneak you onto the scale and get a weigh-in. Turns out you are up to 8 pounds and 3 ounces as of late last week. It was oh-so-gratifying to hear.
Also, Ella called you some variation of Cider-Truett all week and I found myself doing the same. As she grabbed your head for a kiss, "Gentle, Ella, gentle with Cider, I mean Truett, I mean, Cider Truett." And all week she breast fed her baby dolls next to me, encouraging me to, "give him more breast milk," whenever you got fussy. Turns out it was pretty much on the money every time.
Truett, I don't even know how to write this paragraph so I'll just go on and muddle through with a bunch of sap and cliches. Two days ago, Sunday, was one of the best days of my entire life. Your father and I carried you to a furniture store where you, PRETTY MUCH (except for the time I had to dash out to the parking lot), snoozed in the sling the whole time. We bought one of the most gorgeous dining room tables I have ever seen in my life (which could account for some of the almost silly-happy I felt all day) before returning home to set up the table and make dinner. And then eat on the beautiful table. While you, again, slept in your sling. We finished up the night by watching a dvd of last season's Mad Men and then the new episode on tv and you let Bud hold you nearly the entire time. That day, although I'm pretty sure I can't put my finger on it, had such a sweet combination of indescribable joy and holy-God-we're parents, I kept waiting for the bubble to burst. Your father would look over at me, then down at you and whisper, "Look, look at him mama." Which I did, over and over, even when neither of you knew it.
