No Longer A Newborn, Or How We Changed Sam’s Name To Agador Spartacus

Today Sam, you are four weeks old. That means that you’re no longer considered a neonate — you’re officially an infant. This is a big day. I’ve been feeling kind of nostalgic all day. Remember when you were only seven pounds and change? Remember when I could carry you around like a football without fear of you wiggling out of my grip? Remember when you slept most of the day and hardly spoke up about anything?

Now you are about 10 pounds, and I can’t carry you like a football because you are such a wiggle worm, and you have turned into a grunty baby. You have lots to say all the time. When you’re eating, you have to tell me how you feel about it every couple of minutes. You are much more aware of your surroundings, constantly looking around. Your favorite thing to look at is the ceiling fan in our bedroom. You like the contrast of the dark blades against the white ceiling. Your eyes are focusing more and more every day and find our faces more easily. I can tell that you know my voice, because you settle down and turn toward the sound. You are no longer the little sleepy baby that can be put down for a while to lie peacefully while we get things done. You prefer to be held and talked to and played with — and we are thrilled to have the opportunity to do that. We feel so lucky to be able to be with you 24 hours a day, even if we’d like more of those hours to be sleeping hours.

Speaking of sleep, you definitely have a schedule. It mirrors my body’s ideal schedule — stay up until midnight or 1:00 a.m. and sleep until noon. I wish that I could get you to be more excited about the morning hours. If only you knew what you were missing, you might be more inclined to open your eyes before lunch. Last night, you slept for five hours in a row. It was heaven. I woke up before you did and checked to make sure you were still breathing because I just couldn’t believe that you were still asleep.

You have a special talent for pooping. I never knew such explosions could be made by such a little person. You relish in your poops. Often, you will grin after letting a particularly loud one go. I love to see those smiles. It gives me a glimpse of the real smiles that are soon to come. We are learning the difference in sound between a long fart and a poop explosion. Sometimes we are wrong — and whoever is the designated diaper changer at the time gets to wear the fruits of your labor. Today, on the four-week anniversary of your birth, you leaked poop through the side of your diaper. We were so proud.

You’re getting more control over your head and limbs. It won’t be long before you can hold your head up. You practice every day. Tummy time is very hard work, but you do such a good job, whether it’s on one of our tummies or on the floor. We have to watch you very closely so you don’t smash your face on the floor. We’re good parents like that.

You’re huge, Sam. I can’t get over how quickly you are growing and changing. I know when everyone meets you this summer, they’re going to say, “Look how small he is! He’s so little!” And I will remember how tiny you were when you were born. How tiny your little hands were and how squishy and curled your little body was. I will never forget those tiny first days. Today, I dressed you in one of your newborn t-shirts, because it’s still hot here. You looked absolutely ridiculous in that tiny shirt and very much like Hank Azaria’s character named Agador Spartacus from The Birdcage. See exhibits A and B:

I’m sorry for recording that for all of posterity. I promise it will come out at your high school graduation. Your friends will love it.

Love,
Mom