I took this photo because your grandmother didn’t believe me when I said you liked to chew on baseballs. I’m kidding. Those are your cheeks. They are the biggest things I’ve ever seen, aside from the bosom of Dolly Parton and perhaps maybe Mt. Everest. They’re so big, in fact, that your Dad noticed that when we give you a bath, they float. They float to the surface as if they weren’t even connected to your scrumptious face. I love them so much, Bee, cheek one and cheek two.
You know what else I love? Three month old babies. I always wondered when this parenting gig would get fun, and it turns out that for us, three months is the magic age. You’re suddenly more like a baby and less like a really mean parrot whose neck smells so miraculously foul from the contents of your digestive system. Just yesterday I realized that you haven’t spit up on me since Tuesday, so I ditched the bath robe and put on a real live outfit. And we danced and danced, and danced until you belly laughed and cried from the sound that escaped you. It was a beautiful moment.
You also babbled “Hey, girl” while I was changing your diaper this morning, which is sort of an Internet meme right now. (I don’t get it, either.) You’re just so on trend, little Bee.
You are 100% mesmerized with your right hand this week. It’s as if nothing else in this world exists, and certainly nothing more fascinating than your tiny stump that contains all of five digits. You’ll lie on your back and stare at it in the sunlight, much like a beauty queen admires her latest manicure, or a recent bride marvels at her sparkling new diamond. Except there’s no manicure and no diamond – just you and your own right hand. (I’m inviting the left one over for a play date next week, so be nice to her, too, OK?)
And I hope you’ll always feel this way. I hope you’ll always realize that it doesn’t take nail polish and jewels to be pretty, Bee. It takes you. You and the confidence that you are beautiful in nothing more than the skin that God gave you.
Because you are.