Today you have reached 7 months old. We are celebrating with a family trip to the Pumpkin Patch and maybe some pumpkin painting.
I think this is the hardest month yet for me, little girl. The word seven is hard to believe. It can't be seven months since you were born, you are still tiny, helpless and completely dependent upon me.
At least that is how I picture you, tiny and crying in my arms, the two of us completely baffled by one another. In reality, you are getting more and more independent. You can feed yourself your own bottle, pick up your puffs and eat them, gnaw on a mum-mum, grab your own paci, crawl, roll-over and sit all without my help. I'm proud of each new milestone you've reached, each new skill you've learned, but I struggle with the truth that seven months means you are closer to toddlerhood, to one year old, than you are to the newborn you once were.
Even though my heart aches to reverse time, for my itty bitty new born, it runs over with love each time you show a new way that you love me, that you love your Daddy. Last Sunday when I went to pick you up from your crib you held your chubby little arms up to me for the first time. You were upset and wanted your momma. After I picked you up, you stopped crying, patted my face with a sticky hand, laid your head on my chest and gently sighed. I love you too little bit.
I thank God every day for choosing me to be your mother. I can't begin to tell you how richly He blessed your father and me with the gift of you.