Mamakaze

It seems like yesterday that Maddi did nothing but eat, sleep, poop and offer up the occasional smile. Much to my ever-increasing dismay, our wee girl just grows up more and more quickly. In recent weeks, she’s been sitting with minimal support, working on her one-handed motor skills, and grabbing and attempting to drink from the cup we use to rinse her in the bath.

And most importantly, she’s honing her verbal proficiency. Chris and I were so excited when (in addition to bleating like a lamb while passing gas) Maddi started saying “ah-goo” at barely a month old — a skill “What to Expect” told us not to expect until she was four months old. Alas, as with most parents who fancy themselves the progenitors of genii, our early hopes were quickly dashed when Maddi failed to begin uttering grammatically impeccable sentences full of five-syllable words by her third month. Week after week went by, and still Maddi failed to tire of “ah-goo,” “glurhh,” “ah-ba” and the ever-popular raspberry.

But finally, our little prodigy has tired of these childish utterings and has moved on to bigger and better things (proving once and for all that our baby, is as we suspected, a future prizewinner of the Pulitzer or Nobel variety — we’re not picky!).

First there was “ahh-oooh,” right on time sometime between months two and three. And we’re not sure when she’s supposed to say them, because they’re not in any infant-development literature I’ve read so far, but our exceptional offspring is now coming forth with such verbal gems as, “moo-moo,” “boo-boo,” “doo-doo” and “doo-boo.” And just when you think she’s going to say “moo-moo” or “boo-boo” again, she comes up with “lala,” “momo” and “bobo.” Brilliant! Brilliant, I say!

Some babies her age may be inadvertently saying the names of their parents, but not Maddi! Our wee one is telling us what the cow says, pointing out injuries and dirty diapers, and telling us in Korean that she would like some tofu. Yes, it is certain that we have a great mind in our midst.

But being a renaissance baby doesn’t come easy. Little Mozart had to learn to play the piano before composing his operas and concertos. Little Da Vinci had to hit the sketchbook long and hard before conceiving “The Last Supper” and immortalising “Mona Lisa.” In order to attain her amazing verbal feats, wee Maddux spends hours practicing her oratorial skills. From the crib, late at night, we can hear our wee one saying “moo-moo-moo.” While eating, she often pauses, wide-eyed, to utter a thankful “boo-boo-boo.”

And today, while riding in the car, Chris and I were treated to a performance of … well, we’re not sure what it was. The closest thing to which we could approximate it was a tiny, high-pitched bear growling contentedly. Still, what parents can boast that their baby, just shy of five months, has approximated not one but TWO animal noises?

So far, she hasn’t yet asked for her dinner in a complete, well-composed sentence. But, clearly, it is only a matter of time!

And here she is: Our 21-week old wunderkind, who is clearly (and we’re not just saying this because we’re her proud parents) the most intelligent baby on the planet. (So smart is our wee one, in fact, that she quickly tired of her shiny new high chair when she realized that, unlike the others at the table, she had nothing to eat.) Her newest trick, which we noticed tonight, is smiling whenever we pull out the camera, no matter how tired and crabby she was 2 seconds earlier. I think she realizes that when the shiny box comes out, Mommy will soon be making silly faces and saying “Boogie-boogie-boo!” — and it doesn’t take a genius to tell you that is high comedy right there.

One of the great joys of having a baby is picking out his or her tiny clothes. Some of the fondest memories I’ve ever forged were those of Chris and myself giddily shopping for all things pink the week we found out we were having a little girl. There is something so exciting about choosing tiny shoes and wee sleepers and postage stamp-size blankets for one’s highly anticipated baby.

Of course, shopping for a baby once it’s arrived is fun too, but it’s usually done on a minimum of sleep — and often while the baby is clad in her last clean onesie because your estimate of how many outfits a baby needs was made without factoring in that baby’s ability to have 12 diaper explosions per day. The bliss of wandering about with one’s partner, filled with hope and love and an aching desire to do something — anything — to feel nearer to that baby who’s nestled so close and yet so far away, is impossible to completely recapture once that baby has entered the world.

But however wonderful it is to bring that baby home and dress him or her in all the tiny, wonderful outfits you and your beloved have chosen, the day will come when those outfits start to fit your baby like sausage casings. Soon, those adorable little togs will unsnap at the crotch when the wee one kicks or rolls over. And eventually, as we found out the other day, the straps on the tiny overalls — in which baby once swam — will no longer reach the buttons.

It was sad, to be sure, when Maddi’s tiny Gerber newborn sleepers grew too small. But they’re meant, after all, to be worn home from the hospital. Now, however, much of her 0-3 month wardrobe is ready for storage.

To accommodate her growing cache of 6-9 month clothing, I finally (and reluctantly) culled all the outgrown clothing from her dresser, closet and diaper bag. Little sleepers that strain at the snaps, pants that end at her knees and onesies that fit like a second skin — so many clothes, and so many memories. Some were worn once or twice; others — like the little chick outfit Chris bought me for my birthday (just a week before Maddi arrived) or her pink-and-white striped OshKosh overalls we bought before we knew for sure she was even a girl — were worn whenever they were clean and we had something bearing the faintest resemblance of an “occasion” to dress her up for (yes, that would be grocery shopping!).

It’s bad enough that our newborn is gone forever; now I have to pack up all those sweet memories for good, as well. Although I’ve got all those tiny clothes washed and set aside, I haven’t found a box or bin in which to put them. To be quite frank, I’m not looking forward to the task. I know there’s no way our little girl will fit in her pink-and-white polka-dotted sleeper, but it’s so hard to say goodbye after spending so many days holding my warm sleeping newborn who just happened to be wearing those cute little pajamas.

Hate it as I may, at some point I’ve got to put all those tiny outfits in storage. And soon enough, the same fate will befall Maddi’s 3-6 month clothes, which grow more snug by the day.

I try to tell myself that she will wear new outfits and make new memories, but that was cold comfort this afternoon as I packed her old clothes into the closet and made a mental note to find a wee bin in which to store them for the next baby. There are a lot of things that get lost in the chaos of everyday life with a young baby, the least of which is the fact that those days are oh-so-fleeting. As much as I try to live every day enjoying Maddi to the fullest, when I pack up my memories of a younger baby, I wind up feeling that I’ve let those days fly by without savoring them quite as much as I should have.

And here’s a picture of little Maddi, who, at 20 weeks old, no longer wears wee precious newborn clothes but instead wears pony shirts, like her daddy (you can just imagine the tears I will shed when this number goes into storage!):

One of Maddi’s first “life lessons” apparently will be delayed gratification. You see, while Maddi is intensely interested in food, she will not be getting any until she is six months old.

Of course, we can’t stop the baby from dreaming.

In the past few weeks, I’ve observed Maddi staring in wonderment at whatever tasty treats I manage to consume with her in tow. For awhile, she’s been eying such diverse foodstuffs as burritos, granola, tortellini and barbecued chicken, but only with the vague interest that she might afford a dog or a stranger at the mall.

But a few days ago, I poured myself a glass of bright-orange V8 Splash and downed it in front of her. Maybe it was the bright color, or maybe it’s just Maddi’s time to become interested in food. Either way, our wee one was riveted. Her eyes followed the cup as I brought it to my mouth and back down. “Mommy is eating,” I told her, just as I tell her when she’s about to eat, or when the cats are eating. Maddi looked at me wide-eyed, then burst into gales of uproarious laughter. As I finished my drink, she continued to stare at the glass and laugh.

Ever since that day, Maddi has stared obsessively at me every time I ingest food or drink. She ogles cinnamon rolls and gazes in rapture at brightly-colored salmon maki. She smiles knowingly as I shovel in pasta. Occasionally, as she is intently eyeballing a drink, she will reach out and pat the cup.

She loves being at the dinner table. If she’s taken her naps, she will sit in someone’s lap smiling at everyone as they eat this amazing stuff they call food. She hasn’t tried to swipe any food — yet. It is just a matter of time, however, before food ogling escalates into food grabbing and, perhaps, even food mouthing.

Alas, it is not to be, sweet Maddi. Not until November 6.

This next two months may prove very frustrating indeed for our little gourmand, who never met a food source she didn’t like. It’s not like we can even tell her “It’s for your own good,” because, frankly, we’re not even sure she understands “Hi” yet (although that doesn’t stop her from trying to say it!).

No, our darling daughter will have to figure out for herself that good things come to those who wait. (Let’s just hope she thinks strained squash is good.)

And here is Maddi at 19 weeks old, clearly getting quite enough nourishment without sushi or V8:

Ever since we’ve incorporated a routine, Maddi’s schedule has become very predictable.

At 7 a.m., you can count on her waking up. Sometime in the 9 p.m. hour, Maddi will be laid in her crib and, within minutes, fall into blissful slumber. She has regular meals — if you come calling around 10 a.m., for instance, our daughter will be indisposed. You can even count on a dirty diaper every day about noon (unfortunately, you can also count on several random “bonus” diapers).

And each day from 2:30 to 3:30 and 5:30 to 6:30, you can rely on Maddi to NOT be napping.

Now, these are her scheduled nap times. In fact, they were scheduled by Maddi herself. At approximately 3 and 6 every afternoon, Maddi becomes cranky and her little eyes begin to grow red with sleep. So I pre-emtively begin rocking and singing while she is still happy, to avoid having to put an overtired baby to sleep. Alas, whether she is tired or not when the naptime ritual begins, there is one thing Maddi also wants to avoid at all costs, and that is her nap.

You see, Maddi is a very social baby. She would much rather be part of the excitement, even if the part she contributes is the screaming.

Clawing furiously at her purple-rimmed eyes all the while, Maddi routinely manages to stay completely awake through not one but both of her naps, assuring that she misses not one moment of fun. And what fun it is!

Because whatever oh-so-thrilling activity we may be doing, within five minutes it becomes familiar enough to cause boredom, and the boredom leads to sleepiness. And the sleepiness leads to the intense need to not fall asleep (this is VERY important to her), and that means that she must go on to a new activity.

Rocking with Mommy won’t do, so she takes a ride in the sling. Pretty soon, that threatens to lull her to sleep, so she arches her back in an attempt to propel herself out of the pouch and into something that will keep her more alert — like her floor gym. Alas, the floor gym involves lying down, which is also done during — you guessed it! — sleep. Such a nice comfy position … we can’t have that!

At this point, Mommy is probably hungry and losing it, so on to the table, where Maddi will sit in a lap just long enough for the lap’s owner to settle down for dinner. Then, it’s too comfortable. Time to stand and bounce! Perhaps some maniacal screeches will liven things up! Wheeeeee! MUST … NOT … SLEEP!

This goes on and on, all night, until our purple-eyed baby is shrieking and bouncing from activity to activity like a chimpanzee on crack. Finally, it is time for her bath, massage and story. These are Maddi’s cues that she is about to get her nighttime sleep, which for some reason is acceptable to her.

After nine hours, she is ready to begin the day anew. New places to go. New people to see. New things to explore. New ways to avoid napping.

You can count on it!

And here, for your viewing enjoyment, is an 18-week picture of our wee somniphobe attempting to savor all the joy life has to offer … even if it makes her miserable.

It’s hard to believe that, as of yesterday, our tiny daughter is four months old. This weekend, we went to the Festival of the Tomato in Oliver, a few miles down the road from Nana’s farm. It occurred to me suddenly, as we strolled through the farmyard fest with our little one, that last year’s Tomato Festival occurred on the very last day of ignorant bliss before that fateful pregnancy test that heralded Maddi’s existence.

This year, she’s so much more than a little pink line on a stick; so much more than all of the photos of fetuses I gazed at nearly every day of my pregnancy, trying fruitlessly to imagine what our little daughter might look like; so much more than the helpless, uncoordinated little cone head we brought home from the hospital May 6.

Now we’ve got a giggling, floor-gym-playing, toe-grabbing, “a-ba”-saying, raspberry-loving bundle of sunshine. She seems to hit new milestones every week. Some, like waking at 3 a.m. to practice new skills and trying to help with her diaper, we could do without. Others, such as laughing at silly faces and patting the chests and faces of her loved ones, I can’t imagine life without.

It’s hard to believe it’s been a third of a year already. I still cling to my image of Maddi as brand-new, even as she’s nearly doubled her weight. Conceivably, the reason we’ve had to buy new clothes COULD be because the old ones have all shrunk (enormously) in the wash.

A few weeks ago, we met a tiny new baby who looked like she was rattling around in her giant infant carrier. “She’s so small!” I exclaimed, certain in my belief that Maddi had never been so tiny. Alas, the baby I thought was a preemie weighed a full pound more than our little 15-and-a-half-pound piglet did when she was born. Somehow, my mental image of a wee little thing grows to accommodate Maddi’s ever-chubbier form.

Our constantly changing baby has presented us with so many new things to deal with — first sleeplessness, then gas, and later, rolling over and trying to escape from swings, car seats and laps. While not prepared for these things, I could at least convince myself that they were typical of a baby who was practically a newborn. This week, she’s apparently begun the joyous journey of teething — definitely not newborn territory.

This past year has been full of the unexpected. Not only did I not expect to have a baby — I never expected to have such an OLD baby!

And here’s a picture of our gigantic four-month-old — in a decidedly big-girl-like pose — enjoying the sights and sounds of the Tomato Festival from outside my body.

It seems like just a few weeks ago that our wee daughter discovered her hands. In fact, it was just a few weeks ago. In the time since, she has played with her fingers as if counting them, tented her hands like a small, chubby C. Montgomery Burns, used her new tools to insert pacifiers and grab toys (first, quite comically, with closed fists and later with a mitten-like grasp), and, as I may have mentioned, she has spent quite a lot of time stuffing her hands in her slobbery little mouth.

But now, the bloom is off the rose, and Maddi has gone on to bigger and better things. Namely, her feet. At any given time, Maddi is either gazing adoringly at her toes as she holds them high and proud, or she has one foot firmly grasped in a little fist. In the past week, she has been waking in the night to play with her newest toys (and then wail piteously while still clutching her pajama footies) and has even managed to pull off a few pairs of socks.

I’m not really sure why she finds feet so fascinating, but there it is.

She plays with her own feet constantly, and then stares in awe (followed by uproarious laughter) when I put on my own shoes and socks. In a 40-year-old man I would find this more than a little weird, but luckily for Maddux, she’s an exceptionally cute 17-week-old girl and this behavior is more adorable than creepy.

However, it’s not all fun and games. As her neck and shoulders have become stronger and she’s developed this new-found interest in feet, corralling Maddux into a car seat or her swing has become more difficult. Either she will bend forward to grab her toes as I’m trying to secure her, or she will arch her back in refusal — knowing that once she’s buckled in, she won’t be able to reach her favorite playthings.

Apparently, for our little princess to be a happy girl, she must have easy access to — and good visibility of — the all-important feet.

Tonight, I introduced a new variable into her nightly bath and was stymied, in part by her foot fixation. Instead of putting Maddi in her infant tub, which now requires grease and a shoehorn, I assembled her new bath seat and tested its popularity.

Unfortunately, Maddi a) is not yet 5-10 months old, which means she is lost in the giant bath seat; b) cannot sit for more than 2 seconds on her own, which means that without my help, she eventually either slumps over the front or crumples toward the back; and, most importantly, c) cannot see her feet when positioned in the bath seat, which means that her entire time in the bath seat was spent contorting herself into positions in which she thought she might get a better vantage point. Her favorite position to optimize pedal visibility was standing straight up (another new fixation), which meant that the bath seat was hard-put-upon to contain our slippery, naked, too-small baby.

Needless to say, I decided to retire all baby-bath gizmos, large and small, for a few months and just bathe her in the big tub. Unused to bathing in more than a cup of water poured into her sardine tin of a baby tub, she regarded this new “floating” thing with a measure of trepidation at first. However, Maddux soon realized that she had GREAT toe access and was mollified.

And here’s a picture of Maddi at 17 weeks, entertaining herself in her new favorite way:

As a society becomes more sophisticated, so does its use of weaponry. As our little daughter wages war on every surface in our home (and on my person), she has adapted her destructive forces to match the measures Chris and I have taken to protect ourselves from her aggressive filth assault.

It used to be that I had to wash Maddi’s entire wardrobe every two days because of — oh, let’s call them pant grenades. These showy displays of power were attention-grabbing both visually and olfactorily, and definitely inspired shock and awe. But in time, thanks to my PANTRIOT Act, which involved larger diapers and more accurate tab placement, bumland security was beefed up sufficiently to vastly minimize collateral damage from the pants grenades.

Our dear little laundry nemesis also has been relentlessly pursuing an aggressive campaign of puke-lear (or as President Bush would say, “puke-ular”) warfare. Day after day, hour after hour, she launches volleys of dirty “lactosium” bombs at shirts, receiving blankets, her change table, her mattress, her Gymini, my hair … anything within two feet of this gooey, curdy bioagent’s launch site must be written off until the next wash cycle or shampoo.

This particular weapon has been employed since Day 1, but while our technology remains the same, she has been steadily increasing the amount of puke-lear material used in the attacks. Our intel suggests that within three months, she may upgrade her cache of bomb-making booty to include grain- and vegetable-based explosives, which may be used to rejuvenate her limping pants grenade program as well.

But Maddi’s latest battle tactic may be her cleverst yet. Like radiation poisoning, it’s barely perceptible at first, but it will get you — oh, yes. Unlike radiation, however, it won’t kill you. It’ll just wear you down and make you feel like you’re swimming upstream. It’s like modern psy-ops meets the ancient Chinese art of drip torture.

It’s slobber-ops, and no one will be spared.

It starts out this way: Maddi is wearing a clean outfit. You look away for a second and then look back. Where once was a clean dry chin, there’s now a string of spittle. You blink. Where Maddi’s lips were, all you can see now is a foamy cloud of tiny bubbles. Within 10 seconds, her shirt is soaked to the armpits. In 20, her pants are clinging to her legs, and there are tiny curds everywhere even though your intel reported that no actual pukes had been deployed. You recoil in horror, but it’s too late. Maddi has contaminated you with an unusually viscous admixture of saliva, phlegm and near-microscopic bits of puke-lear material.

Don’t even bother wiping it off. Recently, Maddi has begun employing not only the fore and aft missile launchers, but has developed a program to utilize her newfound Heather’s Attire Nonexplosive Destruction System (or HANDS) to stealthily gather weapons of mass disgust and smear them on very specific targets — even moving ones.

Her ever-more-sophisticated sense of gamesmanship has evolved to the point where she uses affection as a sort of Trojan horse. You think you are getting an affectionate pat to the face, whereas you are actually being smeared with a toxic, stinky coctail of lactosium and various other gooey bioagents suspended in warm saliva.

Having the advantage of cuteness on her side, our wee outlaw also has been known to lure her targets by expressing her love for “flying.” This allows her to gain access to weak areas and exploit them. Recently, during a seemingly routine flyover, she dive-bombed the sensitive ocular region of Laundry Central’s mother unit, causing a temporary loss of visual contact and garbled verbal communication.

True to form, she was seen on Al-Brassiera television smiling and making light of the situation as she restocked her arsenal for what we can only guess will be future attacks.

Whether the Launder Alert will be green, yellow, white, clear or several of the above is anyone’s guess.

And here’s a 16-week mug shot of this cute — but armed and dangerous — laundroterrorist gearing up for another messy HANDS attack.

It’s hard to tell by looking at Maddi that she’s mine, since her face is all Chris and her body parts resemble those of a sumo champion rather than either parent. But while she may not look one bit like her mom, she is finally beginning to share one of my interests.

At first, Maddi couldn’t care less that I read her a story every night before bed. While I was educating her on the language of farm animals, she was busy trying to catpult herself off my lap. When urged to feel the fuzzy down of the chickens or fluffy wool of the sheep, she instead would tug on the smooth hair of the mommy. (And why are almost all baby books about farms? Couldn’t there be just one about zoo animals, ocean creatures or Australian wildlife? Or — here’s a novel concept — something that’s not about animals at all? Surely some babies don’t like animals.)

But finally, in the past week or so, she has begun enjoying her bedtime story. Instead of plotting her escape from my lap, she sits patiently through the story of “Busy Little Mouse,” enjoying the rhythm and rhyme (and the inescapable animal noises). When we read the “Touch and Feel Farm” book, before I can prompt her to feel the dog’s furry tummy, she reaches out and eagerly manhandles the pages on her very own.

And when we read the ONE book she owns that is not overtly agrarian (although it concerns the lifestyles of ladybugs, which are often found on farms), she impatiently tries to flip forward through its cloth pages because she knows that at the end, she gets to crumple the ladybug’s crackly wings in her fat little fists.

Of course, baby that she is, sometimes Maddux takes a tentative nibble at a book, bringing new meaning to the term “voracious reader.”

Books are a great thing for Maddi — and for us. She’s been getting to sleep as early as we want lately, thanks to her bedtime routine of bath, infant massage, bedtime story and late-night meal. But the kicker is that I also have a new way to entertain her when she’s fussy in the car.

A few days ago, out of sheer desperation, I began reciting the lines of “Busy Little Mouse,” far and away her favorite book despite it being way too old for infants. I am sad to say that I have the entire book memorized word-for-word. As I said the first few lines, our little princess stopped her fussing, and by the time Little Mouse’s parents tucked him into bed, Maddi was smiling and cooing.

Yes, it is sad that the lines of children’s books have taken over memory space that previously held the names of muscles and the properties of elements. However, if that’s the price of teaching Maddi the joys of reading, I suppose it’s OK that I recall more about Little Mouse’s barnyard antics than I do about the Krebs Cycle.

Especially since my wee daughter’s book-nerdiness may be the only way in which she resembles me. (Of course, if the first book she checks out of the library concerns the inner workings of Juniper routers — or how to manage her business — we’ll know that the book-smarts are really just another thing she got from Daddy!)

And here is the requisite 15-week picture of our little bookworm in one of her less studious moods:

This past week, I started going to the gym every day. It is the solution to all my problems. Really!

Problem No. 1 is the dreaded “Mummy Tummy.” Where my six-pack once resided, a roll of flabby, overextended abdominal muscles has settled. There is also the issue of that extra five pounds that will just not go away. No amount of pelvic tilts and leg lifts (done in the five minutes after checking in with Chris after Maddi’s bedtime but before my utter collapse) have fixed this situation, so I have brought in the big guns: ab machines at the gym and lots of additional exercises. Problem solved — I have already lost three pounds and my tummy is a bit flatter. The things you can do when you spend a full hour working out!

Problem No. 2 is the biggie. While I get a shower every day, it is always with Maddi in the bouncy seat or swing, and she’s usually barely hanging onto herself. Even if she is asleep, there is a 90 percent chance that she will awaken tearfully within minutes of my stepping into the shower. With this hanging over my head, I rush through my bathing routine, skimping on the conditioning time for my hair and shaving my legs just often enough to keep from being mistaken for Chewbacca.

Enter the gym. Thanks to their child-minding service, not only can I enjoy the luxury of 20 minutes of cardio and 40 of weight and resistance, I can take an unhurried shower, too. Soap! Shampoo! Shaving!!! And after my shower, I can do my hair and makeup right then. And, instead of being lonely while I take care of hygeine issues, a smiling Maddi gets showered with attention from the baby-tender.

The working-out idea could have gone horribly — my being really tired, for instance, or Maddi despising every second in the child minding room. But thanks to some good timing, it’s working out remarkably well. Instead of going back to sleep after Maddi’s early-morning feeding, I simply pack her up and head for the gym. Maddi finishes her sleeping while we’re there and for me, a little fatigue is a small price to pay for a taut tummy and, most importantly, clean hair.

Some people spend months on the treadmill before they look any better. I’ve got nowhere to go but up. Simply having a few minutes to use conditioner and properly apply makeup has already made a huge difference. I may never get my old body back, but at least I’m able to wash it now!

And here is a 14-week photo of Maddi, enjoying some time in her own “gym.”

A mere three months ago, Maddi, just shy of eight pounds, was scrunched up in my uterus wondering what was squeezing her so hard. She had great muscle tone, finely honed via months of leg presses, but she really didn’t do much.

Now, she’s a fat, jolly, 14-and-a-half-pound baby who sleeps through the night, coos, gurgles, smiles, laughs, grabs things, enjoys games and toys, and can roll over. You read that right. Maddi, who last week was still just smiling and lying wherever I laid her, is now laughing and rolling over. Even more amazing, she accomplished both “firsts” on the same day, resulting in repeated queries “are you sure, or is it just wishful thinking?” from my incredulous husband.

The wee one had been threatening to roll over for days and promising laughter for weeks — nay, a month — so neither event was too surprising in and of itself. It was as if Maddi just woke up one day and said, “Hey, there are a few things left on my to-do list; I think I’ll just crank them out really fast here and be done with it.” However, with her three-month birthday fast approaching (it’s tomorrow, in case you haven’t been anticipating it since the two-month mark as I have) it has been almost too much for my sentimental heart to bear.

But while I can safely say we no longer have a sleepy, scrunchy-faced newborn to snuggle (OK, we never had a sleepy newborn), it is such a beautiful — if bittersweet — thing to watch little Maddux pass these developmental milestones. And a relief, too, since “What to Expect” hints that your child may be deficient if she hasn’t laughed by three months, and our little darling just barely squeaked by!

Not that Maddi utilizes her talents with any sort of regularity. She has let me know in no uncertain terms that rolling over is merely a more dependable mode of ending “tummy time” than is screaming her lungs out. Once she has freed herself from the dreaded prone position and is lying comfortably on her back — doubtless smashing her skull into an unparalleled spectacle of deformity — she glares up at me with an accusatory expression before turning to happily stare at herself in her new baby mirror.

And as for the laughter, it’s great when you can get it, but Maddi is an incredibly tough audience. We are forced to make complete idiots of ourselves in order to elicit even the slightest hint of a giggle. I won’t even begin to describe the silliness I have stooped to in my attempts to get a chuckle out of Maddi, because it makes the comedic stylings of Carrot Top look subtle. Approximately two or three times in a given day, our material is deemed worthy of a polite chuckle. Only once, the third time I got her to laugh, have I heard anything approaching a raucous guffaw. To our discriminating daughter, Chris’ and my performances must be the equivalent of what “Everybody Loves Raymond” reruns are to us.

Even though we are completely unfunny, we are still enjoying the living daylights out of our wonderful little girl. My heart does flipflops every time I enter her room and see the way her little face lights up when she spots me. I’ve started a schedule to give her a bit of structure and some rituals, especially before bed, and while each activity was met at first with some resistance, she has quickly grown to enjoy her bath, her infant massage and her bedtime story. (I’m still holding out hope for tummy time, although nine weeks of it so far hasn’t made her hate it any less. If she does learn to crawl, it will only be as a mode of escaping that much-loathed activity.)

As much as I mourn the passing of Maddi’s tiny-baby period, I am really enjoying this period where everything is developing so quickly — her motor skills, her social skills, and most of all, her quirky little personality. I can never get newborn Maddi back, and she’s such a splendid big baby that I don’t really want to anymore.

However, should another newborn come my way, I certainly won’t pass it up!

And here, for your viewing pleasure, is a picture of Maddi at 13 weeks, scrambling to get off her tummy.