Month 10: Life's Little Things

Dear Sammie Girl,

Another week of whirlwind activities has gone by, but I’m going to resist the urge to chronicle your first St. Patrick’s Day with my side of the family and I’m going to force myself NOT to write about the totally wonderful time we had with Nonni this last weekend in Monterey (and an even awesomer time on the way home stopping by the outlet mall in Gilroy). I’m going to make myself forget about all of the things that you did in the past few days; I want to take today and write about what makes you…well, you

No…I…will…NOT…write…about…those…things.

But….I will post pictures!

The before dinner Irish photo shoot with cousin Ben:


The screaming hungry baby photo:


The bottle after the pre-dinner Irish photo shoot:


Keeping Sammie occupied while Mommy & Nonni got ready to go hit Cannery Row:


The Nonni, Mommy & Samantha picture in Monterey:


The sleeping baby & Nonni:


Our view of you while we drove home (aren’t those pigtails ADORABLE?)


Ok, so I totally cheated. Those pictures pretty much say it all about what we’ve done these past few days. The thing is, I spent much of last fall waiting for the week when nothing significant happened so I could journal about that stray curly lock of hair that decorated the left part of your head (seriously—you were losing hair left and right but that long clump of hair remained…it was kind of charming in a unique/weird way). That empty week never happened, though, so I never got to write about your hair. Until right now when I was proving a point. But that doesn’t count because it’s five months after the fact.

I imagine that twenty years from now, you’re not going to care about your first St. Patrick’s Day or about how you watched cartoons in a hotel room. What you’re probably more likely to care about, rather, are the little things that are Samantha Joy. While it’s still fresh as I watch you grow up before my eyes, I’m going to put everything else aside and write about it while it’s still fresh. I fear that if I continue to wait for that “empty” week to write about life’s little things, you’ll be forty and the memories of your babyhood will be long gone.

I’ll start off with the object of affection that I’ve touched on in previous posts: your blue robe thing. Really, I don’t know what to call it. Robie? Blue thing? Piece of my robe? Blue fabric? Lovey? I’ve tried out each of these monikers but nothing seems to fit. Maybe I’ll just wait until you’re old enough to name it yourself. For now, I’ll just call it the Piece of Fabric Formerly Known as My Robe (POFFKAMR, for short).

POFFKAMR mania started last fall when I noticed that you held onto the sleeve of my robe after bath time. Each time, you grabbed onto my robe and held on for dear life so that you could suck your thumb. I don’t understand why my robe was the one thing that did the trick; you had four “lovies” (as Nonni calls them) hanging out in the crib—completely unloved.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at the sudden robe attachment. You did go through a brief period where you were grabbing for anybody’s shirts or cloth spit up rags so that you could curl up the fabric into your fist and suck your thumb (you still haven’t been able to bring yourself to suck your thumb sans fabric in hand—you must have something in your hand to suck your thumb and soothe yourself).

Once you latched onto my robe, though, I took your cue and cut off a small swatch from the front hem of my blue robe. Something about the POFFKAMR’s softness did the trick for you, because it wasn’t long before you abandoned the cloth diapers entirely and reaching for a good thumb session. You love those things. Yes, I said “things” in the plural form; currently there’s six POFFKAMRs floating around the house. We got by on one or two of them for a while, but as your dependency on them grew, I had to keep hacking away at my poor robe because we needed more of them as they were lost/found again/lost again and getting dirtied/cleaned again/dirtied. My tattered robe has now been cut so much that it no longer has a hem on either side up to my mid-section. I still wear it every morning, but as soon as I can find a comparable robe for cheap, I’m going to snap it up and make the old one into a blanket or something.

Here's what the robe looks like now (the arrows point to where I've been cutting away):


This is what the POFFKAMR does for you, though, so I'm not complaining:


Putting the POFFKAMR to good use before naptime today:


If there’s one thing the POFFKAMR is good for, it’s calming you down. While so many people have commented on how happy you are (and you are usually a very happy baby), there is a little bit of another side of you that comes out, a side that usually screams to the high heavens while you throw yourself backwards…which usually results in more screams if your head hits something on the way down. Through careful observation, we’ve been able to pinpoint the exact causes of this sudden personality shift. You’re either:

a) Hungry
b) Tired
c) Desperate for a bottle
d) Upset because someone (usually me) took food out of your mouth after you’ve taken too big of a bite.

When any of the four things have happened (or heaven forbid, all four at the same time), the result is a baby that turns into a red-faced screaming machine. I’d like to think that ten months is too early for temper tantrums, but my gut tells me otherwise. Fortunately, the POFFKAMR is perfect for buying time while I do one of the following:
a) Carry you to bed
b) Get your food ready
c) Make a bottle
d) Distract you with toys (or safer bites of food)

If a POFFKAMR isn’t readily available, we’ve got the next best things: our dogs. Currently, you’ve got quite an obsession with all things animal, which means that we’ve got a three way love triangle going on in our house: We love and adore you, you love us but adore the dogs, and the dogs turn to your father and me for any semblance of the affection that they enjoyed prior to life with baby.

While we were waiting for you to come (and you did take your time in doing that, thankyouverymuch), I wrote about the dogs and how I imagined they’d be with you when you joined our family. I thought Roxy for sure would be your BFF and that Maynerd would be content to lay by your side and get scratched behind the ears. Well, that’s happened…to some extent. Roxy really does love being around you and gives you kisses now and then to let you know you’re loved. Maynerd, on the other hand, has figured out that he wants to be near your high chair during feeding times. Other than that, he’s still trying to figure out what happened to our family; I don’t think he’s grasped the fact that you’re here to stay. I suspect that will change once you’re old enough to scratch him and feed him.

One thing I never took into consideration was the level of fascination YOU would have for our furbabies. You live and breathe for these dogs. When I get you up in the morning, you look right past me and start scanning the hallway outside of your room for any sign of the dogs. If you should happen to catch a glimpse of a tail or paw, you start quivering in excitement and bouncing up and down as you shriek with glee. When we came home from Monterey last Sunday night—and you had to have been very tired—you practically lunged out of my arms at the first sight of Roxy.

Those dogs better start adjusting now, because now that you’re crawling (and getting better at it by the day), the only room that’s safe is the laundry room—behind closed doors. Fortunately for them, you are rather gentle with them (or as gentle as ten month olds can be).

A typical afternoon with the dogs looks like this (um, getting a picture with dogs AND a crawling baby is harder than I thought):


I’m not remiss of the fact that none of the things I’ve talked about this week—the POFFKAMR, the dog obsession, the three generation travels, the Saint Patrick’s Day pictures—none of it could have been possible had it not been for your birth mother and her selflessness in choosing an adoption plan for her. A little over a year ago this past week (on March 23rd, to be exact), we received THE call that your birth mom had chosen us to be your parents. (Go here to relive that day). That day began on a not so promising note (I had slept through the alarm and was late for work) but ended with such joy and excitement. I think about your birth mom a lot lately. Who would’ve known what a wonderful ride that phone call would start—it’s hard to believe the amount of (awesome) changes that have happened in our lives over the past twelve months. Your father often turns to me and tells me just how much you’ve changed his life for the better. I marvel at the sheer amount of love I have for you—I go to bed watching you sleep in your baby monitor and I wake up to sneak another quick peak before heading off for work.

I praise God that He spoke to your birth mom and told her that we were the ones that He had chosen to be your parents. I’m forever grateful to Him for speaking to the our hearts and telling us that He had chosen a baby for our family—a baby that would join us not through birth but through adoption.

With God’s Love,
your mommy