Here’s to eight weeks, SubhanAllah, of my silly little son.
Here’s to his tiny hands and how diligently he tries to cram both of them into his mouth.
Here’s to his precious, wrinkled feet and the day he learned to kick- he lay on the carpet for half an hour first extending one leg and then the other with complete concentration.
Here’s to the number three, which is how many times he wakes up in a night to be fed. It used to be five. Three is a much lovelier number.
Here’s to his senses, which have him currently convinced that anything that gets close to the mouth must be for licking- bath water and shirt collars included.
Here’s to his soft, dark hair, and how it’s only growing back on the top of his head. He looks like a chubby little monk.
Here is to life lived in a series of increments, in bursts of activity that must be achieved before it’s time for BebeFace to wake up again.
Here’s to the fussing and the wiggling and the crying.
Here’s to gripe-water and anti-gas drops that I took to the Chateau and now can’t seem to find.
Here’s the to the complete reliance of one helpless human on another.
Here’s to the perfect honesty that a baby regards you with.
Here’s to the sincerity in a baby’s tears.
Here’s to my baby, whose sleeping and waking are the constantly repeating events that I mark time with, whose tiny hands open wide to hold whatever he can.
Here’s to the way he holds onto my shirt for no reason.
Here’s to the smile, the beautiful, innocent gummy smile he greeted me with this morning that renewed me, that refreshed me in a way that two months of cat-naps at night could never do.
I’ve never been a fan of sugar coating, I find it unfair to whoever bites in and then finds the inside sour. It’s true, a baby is a challenge beyond what you could ever expect. If you thought standing in line for half an hour was tedious, try standing for two hours, rocking a fussy baby to sleep for three nights in a row. If you thought eating cold food was annoying, try eating cold food, standing up with one hand long after dinner time is over because you alone can feed the baby and there’s no way you’ll make your child wait just so you can have yours first. If you thought four hours of sleep was impossible to work with, try 2.5.
Everything you ever though impossible can be done, Alhamdulillah.
Hug your mom. Now.
Now now now. And then hug her again.
And when you have children hug your wife, and don’t ask her why she looks more like a bag lady than the woman you married, tell her that the circles around her eyes are beautiful. Don’t ask her if she’s tired, take the baby from her and tell her to lay down. Tell her she looks adorable in pajamas, because not much else will fit her yet. Tell her she’s doing a good job, because it will be a while before the child could ever say that, and chances are it never will. Not until it has children of its own anyway.
And never, ever sass your mother.