Letters to Jack: Month 5

IMG_1954My dear chubsicle,

I’m writing this letter from our new house. OUR NEW HOUSE! We did it, we somehow moved in the day before I went back to work. (PSA: Don’t do that.)

We’ve been here about a month, and we’re still living in boxes. Your room doesn’t even have a light in it yet. I’m told we have time to unpack, as I plan to NEVER MOVE AGAIN, but my Type-A personality hates the disorder.


Speaking of your room, this month you transitioned to sleeping there and not inches from my bed. When we moved in – and pretty much the day after I returned to work – you began your four-month sleep regression, meaning you were suddenly up four times a night. So there was no chance of you leaving the bassinet.

But when that ended I begged your Dad to get your room set up. I needed some air. I needed my own space again.

So, of course I burst into tears the first night we put you in your crib. How could you be leaving me? How am I going to sleep with you so far away? Why are you growing up so quickly? I even raised the issue of having a third child and the look your father gave me was equal parts terror and OH HELL NO.


You are mastering the roll over, both front-to-back and back-to-front. Sometimes, you roll onto your stomach and can’t get back and then scream accusingly at us. The other day, I set you on the carpet next to me while playing Uno with Charlie, and when I turned back, you were several feet away trying to stuff a Lego into your mouth. So, that’s begun, too.

You’re not interested in sitting. For you, it’s about standing tall and beefing up those beefy legs. I try wiggling you into a sitting position and you have no idea what to do. Your legs lock, you throw your whole body backward and plank.


Now that I’m back at work, you’ve started at Grandma B’s school, where Charlie also attended. You seem to be having a great time. Grandma joked that the kids should write you a book called “Toes for Dessert,” because you always seem to be chomping on yours.

On Fridays, you get special one-on-one time with Grandma Z, who sends me photos and videos of your adventures, on the 15 minutes.

You were stung by a bee at school. It landed on your chest outside, and when you looked down to see what was tickling you, it attacked. Dad picked you up from school that day, so I didn’t hear about this until hours later when I noticed a puffy, red spot on your chest.  “Oh, he got stung by a bee,” said your Dad, LIKE IT WAS NO BIG DEAL. When I finished hyperventilating, he explained that you cried for a few seconds, then were chill. I’m relieved you’re not allergic.


However, you seem to be allergic to my boobs. I can only nurse you right when you wake up or right before bed. Otherwise, it’s Scream Your Face Off City. We were at a party this weekend and all I hoped was that you’d nurse so I wouldn’t have to pump, then feed you WHAT I JUST PUMPED. No luck. #feelingrejected

This nursing challenge, along with returning to work, has led to a few tearful moments of, “That’s it! I’m quitting. Breastmilk out!” Finding ample time to pump is harder at this job. And when I do have the time, my supply is terrible. Why do I even bother?

Then something comes along to remind me why this work is so important. Last weekend it was the urgent care doctor who diagnosed your brother with strep throat. When I told him I was worried about you picking up the infection, he asked whether I was getting any breastmilk into you. “Then he’ll be fine,” the doc said.



I have two favorite things about you right now. The first is how often — and with how much verve — you kick and pump your legs when you’re happy. I’ll walk into the room and your whole body goes crazy. In the bath, you kick kick kick kick kick nonstop. Maybe you’ll be a swimmer.

The second is how, right before you fall asleep, you bury your head into my chest. I know the moment after you do this your eyes will start to close. There is nothing like this, nothing like the feeling that I’ve made you feel so comfortable and so safe that you drift off to sleep in my arms.

Man, I love you.

We have a great month ahead of us. I’m hoping that you begin to sit more, and maybe pop out your first tooth. Plus, we have your first vacation to experience.

Off we go!


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One Response to Letters to Jack: Month 5

  1. re: the bee – to correct the record, I mentioned the sting as soon as you got home, and showed you the red spot. But I did say it like it was no big deal.

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