Eight Month Update

Dear Samantha,

Your eighth month went by in a blur – a blur of arms and legs, knees and hands. You learned to crawl this month and took off with the enthusiasm of a teenager who had just received her driver’s license. The freedom! The need for speed! The look of terror on Mom’s face!

You crawled from room to room as fast as your little limbs would take you, exploring and doing your best to keep up with big sister. Unfortunately, like a teenage driver, you were also prone to accidents and experienced more than your share of face plants and wipeouts. The spills were not enough to temper your enthusiasm for crawling, though. After the harder falls, you would pick yourself up and crawl over to me crying or chanting “Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma.” I would hold you and let you nuzzle into my neck and in no time you were hurling yourself back down to the floor to start going again.

You were in such a hurry to get moving that you began to sit in a sort of ready position, with one leg extended in front of you and the other folded back like a sprinter stretching her quad out before a big race. From that position you could sit and play with a toy or whatever random thing you uncovered that you really shouldn’t have and then launch into a crawl in an instant. It was rare to find you sitting any way other than this. Come to think of it, it was rare to find you sitting at all this month.

You began pulling yourself up to a standing position within days of learning to crawl. Your dad found you standing up in your crib for the first time when he went to check in on you after putting you down for a nap. You were so angry that you should be expected to spend a perfectly good Saturday afternoon napping that you literally stood up to protest. And so it began.

With your newfound mobility came an intense distaste for anything that required you to hold still. That included diaper changes, nail clippings, naps, and changes of clothing. I would often break a sweat after baths in the evening while struggling to get you dressed. You would flip and roll and generally refuse to remain stationary long enough for me to close the exasperating snaps on your favorite pajamas. On one particularly challenging evening, I handed you off to your father and told him I’d rather try to put pajamas on a feral cat. At least then the scratches would be easy to explain.

You may have developed a wild streak, my darling, but you we no less loveable or squeezable because of it. In fact, with you on the go so much, the cuddles and hugs we shared were all the more precious.

Love,
Mama