Over a year ago, with empty arms, I wrote a post about wishing I had a baby to push in the swing in the backyard. I had expectation deferred when Christian died, and it hurt-hurt-hurt. Now, I often just whisper prayers of thanksgiving into my baby girl's wispy, light hair, knowing full well that not everyone has a baby to love and hold.
Charlotte at eight months has three teeth, two on bottom and one on top. She sits up and army crawls all over whatever room we put her down in. She says "mamma" and "ad-da", though only says my name when I've put her down, or someone else is holding her and she wants me. Last night, I was nursing her in our bed, and she was reaching for her daddy, who lay asleep beside us. She couldn't quite reach him, so she pulled herself away from me and shrieked, "DA!" Oh, how impressed she was with herself when he woke up and smiled at her.
She'll eat anything that we feed to her, and has even successfully picked up a couple of pieces of food and gotten them into her mouth. The pieces that miss her mouth, fall to her lap, and eventually the floor, where Max is willing help with clean up. She doesn't limit herself, eating grass and other things that aren't technically food.
She's brave: loving to be pushed (much too high) in the backyard swing and thrown up to the ceiling by her dada. Most of the day she's content and sweet. Happy, so long as her diaper is changed and her tummy is full, but she has bursts of discontentment. Upset when I tell her she can't touch cords that run to the walls or chew on plastic bags. A baby, with all of the normal, willful tendencies that all humans have.
I like to watch the world freshly through her eyes; Watching seagulls while lying on the grass in our backyard, or watching Tater climb into our basket of blankets in the living room. Everything is new and unsystematic. I'm seeking God's Word for wisdom as we choose the things that will be normal and habitual for us, the Norfolk Nowaks.