Growth spurts are the darndest things. It’s so strange to start snapping up a pair of Bea’s recently worn pj’s, only to discover the sleeves stop at her elbows and she can’t straighten her legs. […]
Growth spurts are the darndest things. It’s so strange to start snapping up a pair of Bea’s recently worn pj’s, only to discover the sleeves stop at her elbows and she can’t straighten her legs. I’m still shocked every day by how quickly she grows—and how quickly she learns new tricks.
Crawling took a while to master. So did sitting. However, pulling up was immediate. I put her down for a nap and came back to a baby holding onto the crib rails with a look of surprised accomplishment painted across her plump little face.
She made this discovery the night before we left for the holidays. Luckily, we were heading to a baby-watching oasis: the grandparents’ houses. There wasn’t a shortage of extra eyes or arms the entire week. Bea’s new standing skill was simply a sweet, highly encouraged party trick—and if she ever faltered, there was always someone there to pad her fall.
Now that we’re home, though, we’re trying as best we can to adjust to our new lives as parents of an uncoordinated mountain goat. Every toy, person and piece of furniture is an obstacle to climb on or over, as well as a potential precursor to a concussion. We’ve lowered her mattress and secured the bookshelves, but she manages to find new nooks and crannies to explore every time we put her down.
This foray into climbing is fun, but it’s also tiring—and a bit embarrassing. For the first time since Bea’s arrival, we had to get up and leave a restaurant. After wiggling out of her high chair, knocking over a pitcher of water and flinging a chopstick across the table like a javelin, we decided it would be smart to ask our slightly panicked server to make our order to-go and then sneak out the back door.
These things are to be expected with a kiddo. But no amount of empathy or pity can make you feel better as you make a walk of shame through a packed sushi restaurant with a drenched crotch and a screaming, flailing, cracker-crusted baby.
But she’s my screaming, flailing, cracker-crusted baby, and I love her. I also love that we get to celebrate the end of 2014 with memories like this one. It’s been a year of growth, change, love and more than one incident that ended in wet pants. As I pack away another pair of Bea’s suddenly too-tiny pajamas and move our breakables another shelf higher, I can’t help but look forward to more of the same excitement in 2015—and beyond.
Happy New Year!