This week we celebrated our daughter, Elili’s, half birthday. (If you happen to be curious about why we would ever subject a child to such a confusing name, you can get that backstory here.) I can’t believe it’s been six whole months since she’s been out in the world. It’s impossible not to be corny when talking about your baby, so instead of waxing lyrical, I’ll just post some photos.
Here is Elili almost a year ago:
And here is Elili just moments after she was born. What did the doctor say when she first came out? Not, “It’s a girl!” or “She’s beautiful!” Nope, his first words were, I kid you not: “Wow, she’s hairy.”
And here is Elili this week. So grown up, it’s ridiculous. I feel like tomorrow I’m going to have to take her prom dress shopping.
Funny back story to this posting. I asked my husband if he minded if I put pictures of our daughter on my blog, and to be honest, I expected him to need some convincing. His response?: “The kid keeps you up half the night and never lets you sleep, the least she can do is help you sell a couple of books.” I know I married the right man when he laughs too when I joke about selling Elili on Craigslist. I mean look at that face. She’d get us a bundle.
I kid, I kid. We’d never sell her on Craigslist. We are much classier than that. Ebay all the way.
Again, joking. In all seriousness, Elili, thank you for nothing short of an adventure these past six months. I’ve been having dreams lately where you say your first words, and it’s never “MaMa or DaDa.” Nope, every night–and maybe it’s because of all those midnight nursing hours we’ve been clocking lately—I hear you sounding like a character in an old spaghetti Western sidling up to a bar after being offered a drink. In my dreams, your first words are always something like, “Wouldn’t mind if I do, Ma’am,” or “Yes Siree, I’d be mighty grateful.” (And, before you even ask, OF COURSE, I am already saving for the years of therapy you will need for having me as your mom.)
Again, I’m getting long winded, so let me just get to the point. At three in the morning, when I have your spit up on one shoulder, and I look down at my wet and sticky hands, and say to your dad, “Is that poo? Oh my God, that’s poo!” and then look over to you and you’re smiling from ear to ear, with those ridiculously huge cheeks and that toothless mouth, as if to say, “He he, hat trick!” I can’t help but smile back. How you do that? And then your dad says to me, “You got a bit on your face too,” and still, maybe it’s only for a minute or thirty seconds–but damn, it’s a good minute or thirty seconds–I smile back.
What I’m trying to say is that I couldn’t love you more. And for you, my beautiful six month old girl and your glorious smiles, yes, Siree, I’m mighty grateful. Happy birthday, Pickle.