Two Months

She likes laying on her back

On the couch, on the plush floor of her nursery, on the changing table

and staring at the world

Staring at bold patterns with sharp contrast

like the big broken blue clock on our wall

or the long white, gold, and wood-paneled blinds that came with our house

or the tropical leaf pattern on the quilt we keep draped on the back of our recliner

Staring at our faces, locking eyes, memorizing them

And she will wiggle and pump her arms

Kick her legs

just starting to occasionally find her closed fist to stuff into her little pink mouth

and the best part

is when her whole face breaks into a smile,

gums flashing, cheeks appled,

eyes crinkled and bright behind her now-long lashes

and she twists her head and looks away as she smiles and coos, as if whatever she was looking at was too much, as if it made her too happy

Her coos and squeals and happy screeches and full-chested sighs of contentment all make our hearts melt

We repeat the sounds back to her

and ask her what more she wants to say

because we want to listen

She likes watching her daddy play guitar

She likes when mommy kisses her belly and squishes her cheeks and tickles her face with her hair

She likes being covered with a soft blanket and uncovered again in a game

Her Nonna found out she likes peek-a-boo

She likes to look and smile at her Stitch plush

She likes to listen to new voices, especially her cousins’

She likes looking up on walks in the bassinet stroller

She loves a warm bath, and her special seat both in and out of the tub

She likes snuggling into mommy’s chest in the carrier, sometimes looking around, sometimes sleeping

She still likes sleeping best tummy-to-tummy on top of mommy

She likes when she’s released from her overnight swaddle, her back arching, her arms bent with fists in her scrunched up face, her knees bent and her little butt sticking out

I love her pink eyebrows,

Her crooked yawn.

I love her big brown eyes,

and my heart both breaks and melts when they’re filled with tears.

I love her long eyelashes that are getting longer.

Each time I kiss the top of her head, I swear her hair has grown a little thicker.

I love her perfect ears, soft and pliable with soft brown hair on the ridges.

I love her perfect button nose.

I love her pouty pink Cupid’s bow lips.

I love the cowlick in her hair that’s growing in more every day, like peach fuzz.

I love her little Pooh Bear voice and nervous Piglet laugh.

I love all her many facial expressions, from surprise to concern to pouting to concentration to pure joy.

Her noises are changing from coos

to more babbles

and I can feel she’s on the edge of laughing,

Like the laughter I’ve heard her laugh in her sleep.

She’s learning to blow tiny spit bubbles and use her voice to really yell, like a tiny person.

She’ll suck on the binky too hard and it’ll make a noise that makes her jump.

If we can get her to the point of sleeping where it falls out of her mouth gradually and she doesn’t wake, that’s a good sign she’ll stay sleeping for a while.

Or maybe not.

She’ll get quiet and look introspective when she’s tired, staring into space, her eyelids drooping, her breathing getting deeper and louder.

And when she drifts off into REM sleep, her mouth will smile, and she might almost laugh.

Or occasionally in her sleep she will suddenly break into the saddest cry you’ve ever seen, eyes still closed, quivering bottom lip and frown, and then softly calm down and drift back into a peaceful sleep.

She has different cries;

ones that sound fake, almost funny, when she’s trying to get our attention or change positions;

ones that are fussy, then panicked, where the only thing that will fix it is being scooped up and bounced or being put to breast;

ones that are unhappy, that are immediately solved with a conceding whimper and contented sigh as the binky is put back in her mouth;

ones that are inconsolable, that escalate to goat-like throat sounds, that escalate to almost no sound at all, as her face turns dark red, mouth open, gums on display, hot tears running from her squeezed-shut eyes. “Breathe, baby, breathe,” I tell her. That’s the worst one. But it doesn’t happen too often.

Most of the time she’s awake she lays back and wiggles and smiles and tells us everything that’s on her mind.

Or she’s happy propped up on our legs, looking right back at us, making faces.

When others hold her for a while and then she sees our faces again, she smiles.

And we smile back.

“Hiiiii,” we sing. “Hi, Rosemary.”

“I love you. I love you, Rosemary.”

“I love you so much. Mommy loves Rosemary. Mommy loves you so much.”