I wasn't paying that much attention the last time I nursed you. I was preoccupied, wondering if you'd take a decent nap, wondering how long it'd take you to fall asleep. I was slightly annoyed, because you had said milk was "all done" and "all gone" the last time, and I had prepared myself for that to be it. I put you to my breast and allowed you to nurse till you fell asleep, then I set you gingerly in your crib and left.

I should have had a "last" nursing. But I didn't. Today, when you asked for milk, I impulsively explained that the milk was all gone, just like when you eat all your yogurt. I told you that you were such a big boy, and now you eat big boy foods like pizza and fish, and the milk is all gone because mama's milk is for babies. I told you how proud I was that you were such a big boy.

"I want milk." you said.

"I know," I replied. "But the milk is all gone."

I offered you my breast to touch as you fell asleep, a last lingering comfort. (You did fall asleep, despite the lack of milk) I brushed gently at your hair and sobbed unapologetically.

"You Ok, Mama?" you asked with concern.

"Mama's Ok," I replied. "Mama is crying because she's so proud of what a big boy you are!"

You seemed content with this reply. I was lying, of course. I was crying because I wanted to want to nurse you longer. I wished things were different, that we lived in a society that supports mamas doing exactly what their children need all the time, daddies putting forth a full share of effort as well. I cried because I wished that it didn't bother me at all, that I could continue to nurse you three times a week, a few minutes each time. I wished you didn't chew, hurting me. I cried because I wasn't ready to never nurse you again, but the words were out of my mouth before I had time to fully consider them.

Mostly, I cried because life is a one-way street. You will never be small enough for me to nurse unabashedly, unashamedly, any time you want, ever again. You are so big now, and I adore everything about you at 27 months. Such a big, wonderful boy! But oh, saying goodbye to baby you hurts in ways I never imagined it would. I may nurse another baby someday, but it won't be you. You are growing every day, growing into a fantastic person who needs me less and less. And that is what I want for you.

But still, it hurts. Letting go of this part of me, of us, hurts more deeply than you could ever imagine.

Four Months and 13 Days Since You Were Born

I'm ashamed it's been so long since I've updated you on, well, you. (In my defense, I'm busy most of the day keeping you entertained and marveling at the changes that pile upon changes to make you more YOU every single day.) Sadly, you grow so fast that sometimes something comes and goes so fast that we don't even have a chance to save it, whether on camera or video, or even just to sit back and enjoy it while it's there.

For a couple of weeks there, you had this adorable wookie language made of rolling-throat-style coos. You would wake up every morning and coo happily at the pictures over your bassinet, and we would laugh at how cute the sounds were, how gentle and sweet they sounded, how apropos to such a gentle sweet baby. We meant to take the video camera upstairs and record them so we could always remember that sound. But you stopped abruptly. One day the rolling coos were just gone, and even though I'll never forget them, I'm terribly sad that there won't be a recording for me to listen to. You grow so fast now that there is barely time to sit back and record things.

Now that the rolling coos are gone, your language is made up primarily of a series of squeals and grunts. The squeals are the new way you communicate with the pictures over your bassinet, and they are so loud and annoyed-sounding that I'll have to peer surreptitiously at you in the wee hours of the morning just to be sure you aren't actually upset. You rarely are--it's just that you have a limited repertoire of sounds and that is the loudest one you possess. (Apparently, conversations with black and white Sharpie art must be LOUD.)

The grunts are the newest phenomenon--grunts so deep and throaty that they would sound more at home in the men's room of a truck stop than coming out of a 16-lb baby. You revel in each grunt, concentrating fully so you can enjoy the feeling of the sound traveling from deep in your diaphragm up through your windpipe and out of your ultra-drooly mouth with a flourish. We prefered the rolling coos, but we'll embrace the grunts for now. They'll probably be gone as quickly as the coos were.

The most fantastic development since last month is that you have finally begun laughing. Fully laughing! It's a sound so addictive and hilarious that your father and I have been known to make utter asses of ourselves just for the privilege of hearing you laugh at our idiocy. Some things you have deemed funny include: your father holding your stuffed "butterbutt" toy between his teeth and spinning it wildly, repeated zerberts and 'eating' of your body parts, and the most hilarious thing of all--tilting you from side to side. That is actually what made you laugh the very first time--me tilting you back and forth chanting "Tick, tock, tick, tock, I'm a little cuckoo clock...". Apparently, there is nothing in the world as mirth-induciing as being NOT STRAIGHT UP AND DOWN.

Aside from the laughing, your smiles have also grown both in size and frequency. Your smiles now take over your face in a giant cartoonish half-moon grin, and you smile all day long at things like being picked up, sung to, jiggled, talked to, kissed...the list goes on and on. Although your smiles are no less precious than they were before, they certainly are less of a commodity now that they're so frequent.

Although your aunt Brandy hasn't made it out for a visit yet, your grandparents on my side did come out a couple of weeks ago. They were thrilled at how much you have grown, and they enjoyed you immensely. You were particularly happy to get horsey rides from your granddad--for some reason his horsey rides are much more amusing than mine. While they were here, we took you to the aquarium for the first time. According to your grandma, your very favorite fish was a bright orange and black one that you watched intently for some time.

While they were here, your grandparents also "helped" teach you to roll over. I watched sadly as you commenced with the beginning of the end of my ability to leave you somewhere and walk up knowing you'd still be there when I got back. No more leaving you on a changing table or bed without a hand on you at all times!

Before the aquarium trip, your daddy and I took you to the Institute for Contemporary Art in Boston. You absolutely loved it. I'm not sure if it was all the bright colors, or the people, or what; but you babbled happily and chewed your toys the whole day. It was my first time nursing you in a public place, and I'm happy to say that I came through with flying colors and am now whipping out a boob and feeding you whenever I feel like it.

Now that you are older and bigger, there are a lot of changes on the horizon. I feel incredily ambivalent about all of them. On one hand, I'm so proud of what a big boy you are getting to be, and I'm thrilled to see what you do next. But on the other hand, it's sometimes a little sad to say goodbye to the littler baby things that are behind us now.

One big change that is coming up is that it is time to move you to your crib in your own room. Although the bassinet you sleep in in our room officially holds 25 lbs, you are turning over and putting weight against the sides, and we think it's not as safe for you any more. Before we can move you, we have to hang curtains, obtain a rocking chair (so I can feed you at night without going back and forth), and find a way to keep the cats from going in and sleeping on your head. I am unashamedly dragging my feet. Your room seems so far, and when you are there I won't hear you babbling in the morning, and I won't be able to reach out and touch you any time I want. But I know that you will probably sleep better in a room by yourself, and of course I will never be far away if you need me. I will probably check on you thousands of times in the first days after we do move you.

The other big change that is right around the bend is SOLID foods. I had planned to exclusively breastfeed you until you were at least 6 months old, but your pediatrician recommended starting you a bit early. Apparently this is commonly done with babies who are at the big end of the size spectrum (you are), are waking often at night to eat (god knows you are), or seem to "want" food. I explained to the pediatrician that I was going to wait until you seemed to "want" food, and went home thinking I had dodged that bullet and it would be almost another 2 months before I had to think about it. Then, I realized that you never sit with us at the table. You never sit in my lap while I eat. How would we know? So, we set up your high chair so you could sit with us at the table, and I began letting you be closer to my meals. Well, let it be known that in the past 2 days you have attempted to eat my chicken nuggets AND my pancakes. You also watch each bite we take as it travels from plate to mouth with big, begging eyes like a family pet. So much for putting that off! In the next couple of days, I think I'll be picking up some baby spoons and organic rice cereal, and we'll see what happens. If you aren't ready, we will just wait a few more weeks. But I'm not holding my breath on that last one.

Now that the weather is nicer, I'm looking forward to taking you outside for more activities! In fact, why am I spending a warm Sunday writing to you when you'e just a couch cushion away, grunting loudly at your father from your Bumbo seat? You will only be 4 months and 13 days old for today. Just today. Tomorrow, well, we'll deal with that when it comes. And hopefully we'll remember to take pictures.

Three Months, Eight Days

It's 4 o'clock on your very first St. Patrick's Day, and you are off with your father. He signed both of you up for a group called "Time for Dads" at Isis Maternity, the place where I have been taking you to New Moms groups and such. It is the very first time you have gone off without me, and it is very strange. I was excited at the idea at first (two hours without having to think about everything because of the baby!), but then the car with the two of you sloshed through the coconut-cream-heavy mounds of snow we got last night (a freak nor'easter!) and pulled away, and I promptly hyperventilated. I don't generally worry very much when I leave you here, but you going off without me seemed much more alarming somehow. Everything that matters to me is in that car, and when I realize that then suddenly the reinforced beams and side-curtain-airbags seem insufficient, the entire thing seems as fragile as an eggshell.

I'm sure it won't always be this way, I will adjust. If it makes any difference, I settled down and watched a Tivoed episode of Grey's Anatomy when I was finished hyperventilating. Well, after I peed without stopping to consider where I should put you in the meantime and do you need anything first and will you cry and can Sadie get to you and and and...

At the risk of repeating myself in every entry, you are enormous. You just keep getting bigger and bigger, which makes sense because I wouldn't expect you to be a 15-lb teenager, but GEEZE. You are ENORMOUS. Your chins go on infinitely, and your thighs are absolutely ridiculously chubby--to the point where I have trouble pulling your pants over them. In fact, your father and I were recently watching a segment of BRYCE: The Movie from a month or so ago in which we were marveling at your "chubby thighs". Bryce, we laughed and laughed at our ignorance during that segment, for you seemed scrawny and skinny to us in it, and the thighs I was so proudly demonstrating looked no bigger than chicken drumsticks. You could give any 25-lb Thanksgiving turkey a run for its drumstick money these days. I finally had to pull out the majority of your 6-9 month clothes, since they FIT now (and will likely be too warm for summer days, what with the long sleeves and all...).

I remember in the early, dark days of your existence, we made a trek to West Roxbury to purchase some items we had found on Craigslist (in case you are ever wondering, it was the carseat Bundle Me, the Baby Bjorn, and the 2 fleece Swaddlemes we use on you every night). Your father ran into the house to purchased the items, and I waited with you in the car (and, if memory of that time serves me, likely fell asleep). When he came back, he recounted for me the conversation he had had with the woman who sold us the items. She asked how old you were, he told her (in days or weeks, whichever it was--it wasn't much of either!). She smiled cheerfully and said: "Hang in there, it just keeps getting better and better!" At the time, I couldn't really believe it. I couldn't imagine I would ever be well-rested enough to be cheerful again, and the days I would be able to genuinely smile seemed so far away. Well, I finally have realized what she meant. Every day now is a bit better than the one before, with you being happier, more alert, more of a person than you were the day before. You smile unendingly now, countless times a day. It seems strange that I ever didn't know your smile, now that you display it so proudly and openly and easily.

Not only do you smile, but you converse with us now as well. A smile is likely to be accompanied by a series of "Aaaah!"'s or "Errroooo!"'s, especially if we encourage you by repeating what you have said back to you. To you, there is barely a greater delight than that. You wake up before I do some mornings, and if you aren't too terribly hungry than I will eventually hear you babbling delightedly to the pictures I made for you out of 3 x 5 cards and a Sharpie. I'm not sure what you are saying to them, but it seems to be of great importance.

We decided to try NOT swaddling you one night not too long ago, but you were having none of that. I thought perhaps you were getting too old to be so constricted, that perhaps your sleepsak would be warmer for you. Well, you woke up more times that night than you had for weeks prior, yowling offendedly. I guess you like the feeling of being held close by the Swaddleme. You barely wake up when I wrap you tightly now, even as I pull the arms tighter and tighter to make them fit around your broad chest and round belly. I fear that you'll outgrow the Swaddlemes before you outgrow the act of being swaddled--and then where will we be?

You have recently discovered the joy of handling toys and moving their plastic components (so much for our whole "only wooden toys" crap). Suddenly, the toys perched on the tray of your swing are getting some use as you spin them with an exceptionally jaded expression. Your current favorite seems to be your "grab apple"--a strange red bendy apple skeleton that is thin enough for your stubby fingers to wrap around. You'll turn it over and over, putting the fuzzy leaves in your mouth. Another recent toy-related development is the Bumbo seat. Your father and I waited and waited for the day you would be old enough for a Bumbo, mostly because babies look ridiculously cute in them, but also partly because it would mean you were a big enough boy to sit with us on the couch. Well, you sit in it now, if a bit precariously as your still wobbly neck tosses from side to side. I squeeze you into it every day, then clap my hands and exclaim "Big boy Bryce! Big boy Bryce in his Bumbo seat!" and you smile hugely and wriggle with pride. You know what a big boy you are getting to be.

More visitors are coming soon, your aunt Brandy who has been my dear friend since I was just a bit older than you are now; and your grandparents on my side. I am so excited for both visits! Your aunt Brandy has never had the pleasure of meeting you at all, and your grandparents haven't seen you since you were tiny and for the most part, oblivious. It will be so fantastic to show off to all of them how adorable, clever, and engaging you are.

You are all of those things and so much more, so very much more, so much more than I could ever begin to describe to you. Sometimes you will doze off after nursing, and I'll let you snooze contentedly on the Boppy, leaning against me. When you eventually wake up and look around in confusion, I'll gently tap your nose, and you'll smile and say "aaaah" before slipping back into sleep. That level of trust is heartbreakingly endearing, and for some reason it makes my eyes well up just to think of it.

You'll get more enormous, more chubby, and more adorable. Of that I am certain. What I can only hope is that you will always have someone in your life who loves you as much as I do. And that I will never know a day without your smile, even if I have to imagine it because you're off in Africa saving the world or something.
As long as I know you are smiling, things will be Ok.

Two Months and Six Days

Dear Bryce,

It was 2 months and 6 days ago 9 (at least, according to the reverse countdown on my Mac's dashboard) that you ka-thumped into the world. (You'll never quite understand my use of 'ka-thumped' in this context, because you don't have a uterus or vagina. Rest assured that the feeling of you making your grand exit/entrance was very much a ka-thump.) I can't believe it was such a short time ago. I can't believe it's been that long. Haven't you always been here? Didn't you just get here?

You're sleeping next to me now, perched on the boppy and leaning against the one arm our leather sectional has. Every now and then you stretch and flail and stick out your tongue, but when I reach over and rub your tummy or stroke your hair, you calm back down. It's amazing to me that I am something or someone that calms you, that I am needed.

In the last couple of weeks, you've made an amazing transformation. You've gone from being a squirmy (albeit cute) pooping larva to a full-blown baby person, complete with personality. I made a transformation as well--I went from being a somewhat reluctant mom to a person utterly, overwhelmingly in love with her child. I go to sleep smiling, remembering that when I awake the next day you will be there. And you are so adorable to wake up to--you wriggle and smile and greet the day with such excitement. It's nearly contagious, or maybe it would be if I wasn't still sleep-deprived.

I figured out a few important things as of late, as well. I figured out that I can parent you however I want, that what is right for us is what is right, and things began to improve after that revelation. Now, you spend the first part of each night sleeping soundly in your bassinet, and when you awaken and fuss for a feeding, I simply scoop you into bed with us and feed you while cuddling you back to sleep. You tend to stay there from that point on, snuggled against me, belly to belly. I never thought I would want to co-sleep, but now I love the feeling of your tiny body curled against mine, I love knowing that when you awaken and cry in the night that I'm right there to reassure you. And the best part is that now we are both getting much more sleep. It doesn't have to be so hard! Who knew?

You had your two month vaccinations on Wednesday, and before they were administered we found out that you are in the 80th percentile of height and weight--24 inches and 13 lbs, 2 oz respectively. What else could you expect from a baby with such enormous parents? (Your head remains a respectable 40th percentile, leading me to believe that maybe you won't inherit your father's giant Irish melon...) When it was time to get your vaccinations, you eagerly sucked down the oral one (the nurse said it may have been the fasted one he'd ever administered), and then cried in soundless, heartbreaking shrieks when your legs were stuck, again and again. It was a terrible thing to listen to you scream in pain, more terrible then I ever believed it would be. But you surprised me by calming right down when I picked you up and cuddled you to me. You spent the remainder of the day intermittently crying inconsolably and sleeping peacefully. It was not nearly as bad as I had expected it would be, but then you are a tremendously good baby.

Now you are deliciously chubby, so chubby that your hands look like the stick-figure hands a child might draw, just a round ball of hand with spindly fingers jutting out. Your ankles are nonexistent, leading your father and me to joke about how you have "cankles". Your cheeks and chin are round and soft, and you look so different from the tiny skinny baby we first brought home. I will always remember that first night here, where we had dressed you woefully inadequately for how chilly it was and how small you were (I'm sorry!), in just a baby gown and a thin blanket swaddling you. (Don't worry--my mother came a few days later and after that you were dressed more appropriately!) You awoke the first time after having spit up on yourself, and let out your thin, tiny baby wail of "naah. naaah. naaah." Now I know that "Naaah" is your hungry cry, but back then you were probably either always hungry because we hadn't yet had your tongue fixed and taught you how to nurse properly, or always sucking on your tongue because it was improperly placed in your mouth. I didn't know you had any other cry but "naah" then. Anyway, I yelled to your father to help me, as if I couldn't quite figure out how to change a sheet and wipe a baby's mouth by myself. (Hell, I still yell to him to help whenever I can...No sense in being awake and miserable alone!) We got you changed and straight and eventually, you went back to sleep. It's old hat to us now, dealing with your middle-of-the-night wakings. And that's about the only time you ever spit up in bed.

You are two months old. You still haven't learned how to crawl or roll over, how to sit up alone or even how to keep your head held up. You've barely outgrown your newborn clothes and I can even still fasten some of your 3 month bodysuits over your pudgy tummy (while you kick in protest). It's been such a long two months, two months of 24-hour a day on-the-job training, two months of boot camp with the teeniest, most insistent drill sergeant I've ever encountered. Two months of sickness and sleep deprivation and learning how to adjust to what we call "the new normal"--life with a baby who would be held by me all day and night if he had a choice. Two long, incredibly fast months. And now that the first part is over, I'm struck by how very, very short your time with us as a baby is. When does toddlerhood begin, at 18 months shall we say? If that's the case, your babyhood is over 1/9 over already. I know I'll adore Toddler Bryce just as much as I adore Baby Bryce, but I'm not sure I'm ready for the day to come when you learn to stand up and walk away from me, the day where you don't want me to hold you all day and night.

For now, you are here, sleeping again, your eyelids fluttering ever so softly. What do babies dream about? I hope your dreams are always gentle and sweet.