Dearest Zoe,
It's September, and you are already working on your 15th week.
Fifteen weeks have been enough for you to learn a whole lot of wonderful new things, like how to stand up while I hold you, how to smile and coo, and how to charm your mother and me into forgetting how hard--how utterly frightening--those first few days were when you came home with us.
You love turning over in your crib, though you haven't figured out how to turn back yet, and you hate being on your belly for too long.
You've been a drooling expert recently, and you've been especially fussy when I try to put you in your crib at night.
Your mother and I think this means that you are teething. Of course, we aren't really experienced at this whole parent thing, so it could be something else. When I rub my fingers along your gums and look at your mother with a knowing look, as if to say, "no doubt about it, teeth are coming!" I still feel like I'm playing at being a parent.
But this isn't a game and I know it; when I wake you up in the morning and you smile at me like I have always belonged there at the edge of your crib, I know that this whole thing is very real--that you are flesh and bone, and who knows what amazing things you will do tomorrow.
Last night I was singing to you, and I swear you were moving to the music. Like one of those dancing Santas, when I stopped singing, you stopped jiggling. And when I started again, so did you.
You are as fine a creature as I have ever seen. Your mom and I call you Beastie with every ounce of love we've got, but also out of the sheer shock that you exist at all. You are a miracle, mi querida Zoe.
