Evelyn turned four months old yesterday. Tomorrow she sees Dr. Kevin for a check up and her next set of vaccinations. I'm dreading those pin pricks and surprised looks and copious tears and sore thighs. I know it's something only Baby Tylenol and sleep and time will heal, but she's also getting Mommy, anyway. I'm going to spend the afternoon with her, even if it's just to hold her while she sleeps.
She's getting to be such a big girl. When I hold her, she pushes herself up and away, surveying the room, expressing her independence in the safety of my arms. She's rolled over for me, getting stuck on her side before rolling onto her back. Then she smiled. She has the easiest smile. And she loves her bath. She fusses while we wash her hair, fusses when we undress her, then calms when she hits that nice warm water. And for a few minutes, I get to admire her in the way I first did: bare and perfectly formed, engrossed in her own experience. Only now, she's gaining control of those delicious limbs. I've kissed nearly every inch of her perfect round body. My fully realized dream of a fat, happy baby.
I've already put away her 0-3 months clothing. Carefully picked out onsies from family and friends, sleepers, rompers, bodysuits culled over time from Baby Gap. All folded and put into matching plastic bins. A "maybe."
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