Pride swells

At some point in the last three weeks, Aida started turning into a real-life baby-baby. She eats more, she sleeps more, she plays more, she babbles more.

I (and my boobs) are just trying to keep up.

She's pulling her feet to her mouth and trying to suck her toes. She's holding her legs to her chest and rocking from side to side. She's happily pushing herself up from her belly and doesn't mind staying tummy-side-down for long periods of time. At night, it seems, she hikes around her crib.

Aida has long, involved conversations with herself on the way to and from sleep. She tastes every toy and every cloth and sucks her fists at every angle possible. She leans forward in the swing now to touch and gum the little toy animals on the tray in front of her. When placed on her back, she keeps her head lifted in a long, deliberate abdominal crunch.

I started "training" her last week to fall asleep in her crib instead of my rocking her to sleep, and she took to it like she'd been waiting for months for me to put her down. What I thought would be a weekend of suckiness and more suckiness, she embraced with the dignity of a champ. A baby champ. Now, she's crying less, sleeping better and generally impressing us with her all-around wonderfulness.

Pride swells.

It swells when she giggles for strangers and friends. It swells when she holds the teething bumble bee between her hands and lifts it to her mouth. It swells when she hangs her head out of the side of the Baby Bjorn on our walks, trying to take in every sight around her.

And when my mom tells me what a great day Aida had while I was at work? Yep, swelling.

"I love her," I tell Steve at night after Aida's fast asleep. "Isn't she cool?"

Steve agrees. She is. And it happens again. I am overtaken. Awash in gratitude and happiness and all things light and airy and fluttery and good. Heartbreakingly, achingly amazed. Heartbreakingly, achingly in love.

Wednesday morning play. 4.5 months.