A Little Addy-tude

I'm laying on the couch, with Adelyn straddling my stomach. I hardly have to support her at all anymore, just a quick hand behind her back when she leans too far in one direction or the other. And this ability, being able to sit up all by herself, will be the defining triumph of Adelyn's babyhood.

The turning point came when she started sitting up with our help. Suddenly she was less fussy, more content, the smiles became frequent and the crying became few and far between. When she has her fits now they always, always revolve around not sitting. Naps, certain feedings, mom forcing a toy in her face because she has yet to truly discover them--none of these things inspire the spirit of the baby--the person--she truly is. But when she's sitting it's like she's herself, the person she will become, happy, curious, active, sassy. I'm eager for the day when she can sit by herself and I can sit across from her, engaging her, not holding her up but holding her attention.

Earlier today we stopped by my friend Candice's house. Adelyn needed a nap as soon as we got there, so I put her in Kennedy's crib and went through our usual nap-time routine--lights off, white noise, a few seconds of cuddling and then I put her in the crib, my hand on her stomach until her eyelids get heavy. It didn't work, probably because we weren't at home and because the nap was an hour too late. She finally fell asleep after fifteen minutes of agonizing cries--the girl can cry like nobody's business, as a newborn and as a burgeoning six-month-old. And it got to me, like most parenting things do. I'm hard on myself when it comes to being a mother. It still feels new to me; I still feel like an amateur. Not at taking care of my own baby, but at mothering in general, if that makes any sense. A few minutes after Adelyn woke up Kennedy took a nap with ease, without a peep, and of course it sent a what-am-I-doing-wrong shiver up my spine.

So many things have gotten easier and so much has not or has stayed the same. Stalled in its same frustrating place.

It takes a moment like the one we had later at home, with Adelyn sitting, smiling on my stomach, watching her dogs wrestle each other and choosing that this image is funny, to her, another addition to her cultivating self. She listens to her mom say "mama" over and over again in the hope she will say it back and decides that she finds this, too hilarious. She's balancing herself with her hand on my chest, her other hand in her mouth, drool dripping down and soaking the front of her shirt and mine. She's making her baby dinosaur sounds and surprising herself with the loudness of her own voice. I'm falling even more in love with her, and I didn't know there was any room for any more love for this little being that has already taken over every ounce of my self.

These are the sort of moments that make being a mother beyond worth it. I created a person who is already making decisions about what she likes, what she doesn't, what's funny and what's not worth a giggle.

My daughter is a crier. When she cries, she lets it all out. She's not always easygoing. Often she is quickly sent into a tizzy and is hard to bring back down. She doesn't like to finish her bottles all in one sitting. She doesn't like to open her mouth to eat solids. She doesn't like to eat on a schedule. She doesn't sleep through the night, and she was born to a mom who doesn't have the guts or the stamina to do any sort of actual sleep training.

She smiles bigger than any baby I've ever seen. She's the most beautiful creature--adult or bite-sized--I've ever laid my eyes on. She's got an attitude. (Or as her Janu said, just a little "Addy-tude." It's the best part of her.

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Addy Finds Her Dog Hilarious.

Minutes before I left for Atlanta I witnessed Adelyn's second laughing fit. (Not a giggle, but a full-on, minute-long belly laugh.) And what was so funny? Louie. Again, it was Louie. I can see why a baby would find him so amusing--he's a ball of fur, full of spirit, has a penchant for licking baby toes and adult noses, and looks like a teddy bear that was somehow brought to life. Adelyn was sitting up (on her own! for one whole minute!) watching Louie attack Jason with kisses and she couldn't contain herself.

I'm in Atlanta at my first full day of this conference. Learning a lot about poverty and fighting it and just how important this kind of work is.

(And I met a formerly homeless man, probably six-foot-four, three-hundred pounds and African American, who pulled himself out of the vicious cycle of poverty and has started his own non-profit homeless shelter. I'm going to write some grants for him, partly because it'll be great for my resume and partly because people like him make me happy to live in this world.)

Jason has heard about my love of hotels for years. And I'm currently sitting on a cushy, maid-made bed in a sparkling clean room that I didn't touch, full after eating an amazing meal cooked, served, and cleaned up for me thanks to the conference.

But I want to be back in my unmade bed watching Addy giggle at Louie and her dad.

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Addy laughs.

Addy laughed for the first time when she was about three and a half months old. I was waiting for it and waiting for it--this was a milestone I'd thought about from the beginning, even way back during the pregnancy. (I did not, however, fantasize about my soon-to-be adorable baby rolling over.)

The first time we got a chuckle out of her was around five in the afternoon. I'd spent most of the afternoon trying to make her laugh, because she'd been getting so close--squealing, smiling until her mouth couldn't get any wider. And then Jason walked in the door from work, looked right at her and said, "Hi, baby!" And she finally did it. Just a "ha! ha!" And I called and texted everyone I knew to tell them about it.

Since then she chuckles at least every waking hour. It's the best part of parenting so far, I think, making her laugh.

Jason's mom watched her for four days while we were on our honeymoon, and I heard all sorts of amazing stories about laughing fits--when her grandma and great grandma were scooping her poop out of the bathtub, for example. I didn't know what she considered a "laughing fit." Today I found out.

Our friends Jaclyn and Joel came over to swim with their 7-month-old Ella. Jason made us tuna salad sandwiches and we were standing in the den eating, with Adelyn sitting on my lap. Louie and Sampson were both on their hind legs, begging for a taste. We were all laughing at their antics when suddenly I heard what I thought was a weird cry, but I looked down at her face and she was laughing hysterically. She cracked up for a good three minutes while Louie and Sampson ran in circles begging for some tuna salad.

One of my old professors told me that she still remembers the first time her son laughed--it was at a blue blanket, that they'd whipped over him. She said she remembers thinking it was the most beautiful sound, her child laughing at something the rest of us wouldn't know how to find funny. A blue blanket.

For Addy it was her dogs. Begging for tuna salad.

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Try, Try Again.

Before we got the Nap Nanny, the bouncer was Addy's bed. She slept in it, swaddled, in her pack 'n play. I immediately tried the vibrating feature during her very first crying fit back home from the hospital, probably because of that Sex and the City episode where Miranda touts it as the no-crying miracle. And I also probably shouldn't have been taking parenting tips from Sex and the City, but oh well.

Addy screamed when I turned the vibration on that first time, and ever since then I've assumed that she hates it. But yesterday I tried it again just for the fun of it, and because I was running out of ways to entertain her.

Now, she's hooked. It makes her squeal and giggle like nothing else. So, lesson learned. Just because she hated something two months ago doesn't mean she still will.

Proof:

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Newborn Giggle

Addy had her first smiles in her sleep. Not the gas smiles, but that big, toothless grin. It was only a few days after I saw that first sleepy smile that I saw the first real one, the first one that was an actual reaction to something.

So I knew that when I heard the first laugh in her sleep a few days ago that the real one couldn't be far behind.

I put her down for a nap in her swing and walked into the kitchen. Moments later I heard this unfamiliar sound--sort of like a cry but without the same intensity--and I ran back into the room in a panic. Funny how even a laugh, when it's something you're not used to, can get your heart racing as a new mom. But there she was, peacefully asleep, her eyes tightly shut, giggling away like a maniac. Ever since then I've been fruitlessly trying to get that same giggle with her eyes open.

Her bevy of toys don't do it--usually she just looks at them in a mixture of amazement and confusion.

Last night Jason and I were sitting with her on the sofa, looking like idiots with our ridiculous faces and sounds just trying to get a reaction out of her.

I think I've been giving this laugh thing too much thought, as I always do. How do newborns know to register something as funny if they have no prior reference for humor? How would you know when something is funny if everything is as new and unfamiliar to you as the next thing?

Jason suggested that the funny faces you sort of can't help but make around a newborn might do it. "It's universal humor," he said. And when that didn't work, he suggested fart sounds. Again, "universal humor."

We still haven't gotten that first, bona fide giggle. But we're getting close.

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