Seven Months
Seven months is magical . . . and exasperating. Ingrid has reached that stage of babyhood that parents envision when they're newly pregnant (rather than the wriggly, squalling newborn they actually get). The upside is a gorgeous, smiley baby that wants to play and participate in everything that we do. The downside is that she wants to play and participate in everything that we do.
Ingrid continues to be very clingy with me and screams angrily if I put her down and walk across the room. Sometimes she will tolerate being held by Karl or other close relations, sometimes not. At this point I'm willing to let her wail for a little while because it's hard to have much sympathy for a child who is on a soft surface, surrounded by toys, and close enough to me that she can actually make eye contact with me while complaining about how cruelly she has been abandoned. Still, baby screaming isn't a pleasant soundtrack to our daily activities, so eventually I cave and pick her up. I know that it probably only encourages her to cry, but I'm weak. Well, everything except my left bicep is weak. It's nice to feel loved and wanted and all that, but it's also nice to be able to do things with both hands and to go out to dinner without being terrified that the baby will wake up and go nuclear on the babysitter.
Demanding as she can be, she's so adorable I almost can't stand it sometimes. I took her on a last-minute trip to St. Louis this weekend because 2012's stream of visitors ended and it seemed criminal that no one was going to see her at this exceedingly cute age. She's so soft and squishy and her skin practically glows. She has gorgeous floppy curls and smiles so big that she looks like she's trying to beam her cheeks out into the universe. Sometimes there isn't enough space on her face for her cheeks and she squints her eyes and wrinkles up her nose to make extra room. When she's excited she flicks her legs out over and over again and flaps her arms. She's trying really hard to wave, extending an arm in the general direction of the favored person and flicking her hand, and equally hard to crawl, lifting that big belly off the ground and rocking on her knees. She loves to make clicking noises with her tongue and enjoys conversing with me when I repeat her babbles. She has gotten much better about sleeping through the night but still often wakes up to eat around 4:00 or 5:00 to eat, which is actually fine with me because she goes back to sleep in our bed and burrows in next to me for the most luxurious morning cuddles.
Ingrid continues to be very clingy with me and screams angrily if I put her down and walk across the room. Sometimes she will tolerate being held by Karl or other close relations, sometimes not. At this point I'm willing to let her wail for a little while because it's hard to have much sympathy for a child who is on a soft surface, surrounded by toys, and close enough to me that she can actually make eye contact with me while complaining about how cruelly she has been abandoned. Still, baby screaming isn't a pleasant soundtrack to our daily activities, so eventually I cave and pick her up. I know that it probably only encourages her to cry, but I'm weak. Well, everything except my left bicep is weak. It's nice to feel loved and wanted and all that, but it's also nice to be able to do things with both hands and to go out to dinner without being terrified that the baby will wake up and go nuclear on the babysitter.
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| Leave me here and walk away. I dare you. |
This age feels like the beginning of the "big baby" stage, when the new baby patterns fall away and real personality starts to emerge. We can't wait to see who she will be.
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