My love, my stink, my bug.
You are 6 months old.
I wonder if you know your real name since I never call you by it? For the record, your name is Asher. It means “blessed”, which is quite an awesome meaning when you think about it. Your middle name is Blythe because your Mom is way too hung up on Anne of Green Gables. I promise i will think of a cooler reason that you can tell your friends when you’re older.
But for now, you are my love, my stink, my bug.
I first felt you flutter on my birthday. Isn’t that a lovely gift? You must have known. I was lying very still, and there you were! Making your presence known. I’ll have you know i expect an equally thoughtful gift from you this year.
After you were born, I was pretty sore. I couldn’t do any of things I do for you now. You should know that your Daddy, well, he did it all. He held you first. He changed your diapers, he rose with every cry (and, boy, were there a lot), he tucked you into the tiny basket that was wedged up against his side of the bed for two weeks straight. Even now, when he comes home from work, he hangs over your crib while you’re sleeping curled up on your tummy, lips softly wrapped around your right thumb. He always bends down to give you a kiss. Sometimes he wakes you up. That really annoys me. But he just can’t wait to be with you.
And my goodness, do you love your Daddy. You and him, you’re always giggling together-two peas in a testosterone filled pod. But when you’re sad. Or unhappy. Or when you’ve bonked your head for the millionth time, only Mom will do. And i confess that seeing your pudgy sausage arms stretch up melts me in a way Mr. Darcy never could. I can’t help but scoop you up, snuggle right in, and drink in your little man smell (always in behind your ears). You should know that I never could resist you, my love. You had my heart before you even took your first breath.
My bug, I’m scared I’ll get it wrong, this parenting thing. Already you look at me like I’m crazy sometimes. So I ask that you have a teensy bit of grace. This is my first time. I’ll probably be too strict (don’t worry, Dad will be a pushover). I’m not going to understand all that boy stuff you’re into. All the guns and bugs and farting. But know i will give it my very best shot. Because, my stink, you deserve everything I’ve got to give. So you’ve got it.
You now have tufts of soft hair that I love to rest my cheek on. You have the most glorious folds of skin that start at your ankles and don’t end until the tip of your pink chin. I thought you’d have your daddy’s clear blue eyes, but you seem to be developing greenish brown ones-kind of like a forest. I hope you like them, because those are from me. You have two little white buds on the bottom of your gums. It makes your smile even more endearing, if that were even possible. You love it when i sing. And i sing to you all the time now, because I know one day it will embarrass you. You talk constantly, in your own little language, full of vowels and volume. I can’t wait until i get to hear all those thoughts you’re working on.
All this to say,
happy half-year my love, my stink, my bug.
You are loved with a love I never knew existed until six months, four hours, and fifty-five minutes ago.