A bit overdue.

Dear Lia,

You finally let me put you down so now it's time to catch up on your letters. Can I even remember back to November? How little you look!

Lia, my dear, you are now six months! Just a few days ago (er, since I wrote this part in December...) you rolled forward off your butt and did one knee crawl. Now you just plop onto your belly, but you are quite a go-getter and nothing will keep you put long. You especially enjoy standing at furniture and free falling into my arms when you forget to hold on. Even in the thick of a very nasty cold you were the most active and smiley baby ever.

People remark on your smiles nonstop. Bella was quite the same way when out and about, but it turned off at home. You are just a neverending ray of sunshine, content to be yourself. When I lay you on the bed to sleep you open your eyes, lift your hands and raise your shoulders in a shrug, toss your head back and forth, smile blindly, and drift back off to dreamland. And instead of the breathe-in squeal, you have finally figured out your full belly laugh. Oh how wonderful it is.

What's new in Lia-land? You love to watch me brushing teeth or knitting and can't help but reach for the needles. Go figure I can't find Bella's taggy blanket since you are currently infatuated with tags and string.

Oh my goodness, Grabby McGrabsalot. You grab my neck, my hair, my nose, my lips (ouch), my belly chub, whatever you can get your hands on. You pull me to you and hold on so tight that I now understand why people refer to their babies as koalas. With your free hand you are karate chopping away, and your presence can be quite dangerous.

You've got a new case of Anemone Hands, swaying in some imaginary current as you sit and take in the world. You're yogurty as usual, and just when I think it's safe to go out, you spit up just enough to spoil both our clothes and perfume us with that delicious spoiled milk fragrance. I wonder why no one has bothered to bottle that stuff up yet?

What is there to say. Time is flying at break neck speed. I mean, obviously. It's January and I'm writing your December letter. You're just always there-like a time elapsed movie in which a busy crowd runs all around you and you just chill in the middle and take it all in.

We went on a train ride to Oregon and you were no trouble. You caught a horrible cold and smiled through it all. Things just seem the same until one day I look down and realize you're toes are stretching to the tips of your jammies and your hair is filling in. Days sort of blend into one another and nothing seems to change, but it does. Continually. Only the first few sentences in the above paragraph even apply anymore.

Love, mama

(P.S. Actually you cried yourself to sleep and I just went in to see you and felt kinda bad because you had kicked yourself off my bed into your bed three inches below, and no one came to comfort you. I'll make it up to you, promise!)

P.P.S. Sorry for the photo overload, but I didn't do any posts in December and had a lot to squish into one letter!