Over the course of the day, I examined her carefully. She has chunky thighs, no longer the newborn skinny legs. Her forearms and wrists have pleasing creases of fat. Her hands have grown into the skin that was wrinkly like too large gloves at birth. Her hair is lighter, still curly, and not wearing off in bald patches. Eyes still blue. Her baby acne, which the pediatrician gave me a prescription for and I disregarded, has abated. I think it is related to heat, and/or her face resting against my chest, skin to skin and sometimes sweaty, as I carry her around in the Bjorn most of the time.
When she is awake, she looks around a lot. She has some favorite pictures, one hanging over the changing table, one hanging over the king bed, that she will smile at and talk to. She says "gaa" and "i" (Monkey1 says it's "hi") sounds, and something like "who" when she's about to eat.
She thrashes around and rotates about a quarter turn when on her belly, lifts and turns her head, and a few times has gotten a finger or several in her mouth and screamed they are unsatisfying.
When she sleeps, she smiles, frowns, giggles, and screams. At the screams, my husband says, "She's dreaming that the milk ran out."
She gets hiccups about once a day.
And everyone asks, "What's her nickname?"
As if a three syllable name is too big for her! At home, I call her "Little Girl," which is hardly an improvement. The Monkeys haven't shortened her name yet, but theirs are long too. One will find her.
Meanwhile, just imagine five-year-old Monkey2 wrapping her tongue around the words: swagman, billabong, coolibah, billy boiled, jumbuck, and tucker bag. Ah, the joys of Australian slang.
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