Month I

Dearest Mustard/Mon cher petit Moutarde,
I just wanted to fill you in on your life so far seeing as you won't remember it just a few short years from now and you're just too cute to go to waste. I'm typing while you nurse, one arm a little weighed down. It seems like that's all you do nowadays. Drink. Feed. Suckle. Enlarge.

Your extra long, delicate fingers make intricate shapes in the air as you concentrate on my breast. It feels so wierd and cool having something as real and as little as you depend on me for everything. Wierd and so frikkin awesome. I like you already.

I was a little nervous because I thought I wasn't going to be a good enough mommy. I still am. There hasn't a week gone by that I haven't had some crisis as to what to do about you. "Is that bump on his head normal?" "Is he supposed to eat that much?" "Hiccup that much?" "Poop that much?" I guess, you ARE a boy. Maybe I'll gain some confidence in time. I hope.

I'm proud of your accomplishments: lifting your head up to strain your turtlish little neck around. Often, when I'm holding you and talking I'll get the strange feeling that I'm being watched, I'll look down to see your beady little eyes studying me intently. You'll squeeze them closed quickly to try to trick me into thinking you've been sleeping all along.
Rascal.

When you were born I loved you as an idea. My own little alien mushy.
When I saw you I loved you as the epitome of perfection, every line and feature exquisitely drawn, and all mine. (Mua ha ha ha)
But now each day attaches a little part of you into my heart. All your goofy faces that you weren't supposed to get from me, your toes that splay out like a fan, your crooked grins at some unseen joke. I think you're just about the swellest thing EVER.

P.S. Um, the projectile pooing and peeing like a sprinkler when I change you I could do without.

Much love, Mommy