3 months: to the moon and back

Three months.

Three months means you’re now showing off your handsome smile, you’re persistently trying to express a hearty laugh that so far translates into a gaping, gummy maw, you’re turning into a rolling escape artist, and are becoming more aware, starting to forgo your hours of daytime sleep in favour of exploring every nook, cranny and light around you with your big blue eyes.

Three months means you’re beginning to understand the things you love – when your papsy sings the ’80s to you; when your mama acts out storybooks for you; when your BFF Henri the Hippo speaks to you in her British accent – and those you don’t, like getting your daggers for nails clipped or being restrained in the car seat, the stroller, the terror chair, anything with straps that go clickety click.

Three months means my exhaustion is at a state that most days resembles the walking dead; my patience is a world more tolerable than it once was; and the love in my heart, in my eyes, in my fingertips is so full it’s near bursting.

Three months means… love.

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