dear nixon: volume 4

you are officially seven beautiful months old, ‘cakes.

Seven whole months of sniffing your head, making fart noises on your cheeks, singing you songs about changing your butt, and marveling over what a rad little human you are—
and we’re still just getting started.

It is so cool to mama you.


In the past month, you’ve mastered the impressive art of sitting up unassisted.
Consequently, I am now having THE best time putting you places and watching the magic happen.

Like, you don’t even know how great it is that we don’t HAVE to haul your car seat in & out of places if we don’t want to.

I can buckle you into the cart at Target, and THERE IS ROOM FOR PURCHASES.
I can actually make use of the impossibly small Hobby Lobby carts (which, seriously, whose idea was that to make them so miniature when the majority of the store’s wonderful wares are the size OF the cart?).
I don’t have to perform random acts of child-carrying CrossFit just to enter and exit the grocery store.

IT IS SO GREAT.

The best part of this whole “sitting” deal is that you’ve convinced yourself that you can lift up into a sitting position, from laying down, without any help.

You’re SO thoroughly convinced of your own sitting-up abilities, in fact, that you attempt to invoke them the second you wake up.

We can gauge when you’re officially-actually awake & not just bridging sleep cycles, because you’ll go from eyes closed, fully baby-crashed, to flopping around like HI CHECK IT OUT I AM BABY TOAST and trying with all your tiny might to pop up into a sitting position.

It’s pretty freaking cute.

EXCEPT when you were doing it the other night at like, 3AM.

That was not cute.

While mama loves you and fully embraces your excitement about developing motor skills, there is a time and place for them and I assure you, it is not 3AM.


Here are your very favorite things about being seven months old:

  • bath time in your rad inflatable tub
  • panting when you’re excited, usually accompanied by waving arms and legs to fully punctuate your joy
  • green beans, marinara sauce and sauteed mushrooms
  • your Manic Tambourine Toy, the singing lady inside of which will frantically demand, “Shake, shake, SHAKE!” if you it sit still for too long (the last “shake” sounds like suspiciously like homegirl is on the verge of losing her shit)
  • developing a power arm juuuust as you’re falling asleep and launching your Wub across the room at like 60MPH
  • watching videos of yourself, during which you’ll be very pleased and occasionally offer commentary
  • randomly shouting and/or shrieking, then holding the last note for longer than I’d ever imagine your lung capacity could go

It continually blows my mind that, every afternoon, the chubby-cheeked, beautiful-eyed sunshine droplet sitting in the middle of the rug at daycare is lighting up because he sees me.

And reaching out his joyous little arms because he wants me.

And kicking his legs with glee because he just realized I’m there, and I am his, and he wants nothing more than for me to snuggle him up.

Have I told you lately that I love you so much it makes my breath catch?

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Or that I live for being the cause behind one of your joyous, full-body giggles, and for the way it feels when you snuggle in & happysigh against my shoulder?

Because dude.
I do.
A thousand times over, I do.

You are sheer, wonderful magic in its most pure and fascinating form, and I love seeing the new ways it manifests with every new stage.


Recently, you’ve discovered that (1) my boob does not actually disappear once I’ve covered it back up after nursing and (2) if you dive-bomb at said boob while you’re sitting on my lap, you can nurse sitting up.

I know.
You were pretty impressed to figure this out, too.

The first time you landed a “bullseye,” you immediately popped back up and gave me this huge, gummy grin—
like, OMG DID YOU EVEN SEE THAT THOUGH—
and then went proudly and deftly back in for round two with the stealth & speed of a pouncing snake.

Or a striking snake.

Whatever the thing is called where snakes just rear back & then go in for the kill really fast, THAT.

In short:
Life with you will never, ever be boring.


The closer & closer you’re getting to crawling, the more and more intentional I’ve become with savoring you at your most peaceful and still.

I soak in those little lashes, falling like feathery curtains over your tiny baby dreams.
And the way your sweet breaths sound.
And how those precious cheeks smush with such reckless, melted abandon.

My primary goal in parenting you is to fully embrace every single season, and to live in each moment of it as fully as I can.
I don’t want to look back and realize that I wasn’t present enough;
that I didn’t seize each season’s most magical parts as often as possible.

This season won’t last forever, tiny love.

So in the meantime, while we’re right here in this season’s halcyon, I’m soaking up every golden second—
and then it’s on to the next one, where we’ll do it all over again.

See you there, squishy love of my life.

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I love you more than pizza.
mama.

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About ashley!

in love, obnoxiously happy, and up to a lot of awesome.
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