Maybe you were craving something deep and thinky today?

Sorry.

I am in search of a really good television show to watch avec Husband.

Ideas?

Please chime in. And I’m not ultra-discriminating. It can be mindless or metaphorical stuff. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m an equal opportunity offender.

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So? Recommendations? (Pretty please.)

Husband and I walked through the park to meet friends for dinner. We took our time, zigzagging, looking around. The air was deliciously damp, hinting at rain. We held hands, swinging them between us. And we talked. About little things and big, bartering ideas and hopes and fragments of dreams. It felt like a date. Like I was still getting to know him, this handsome guy, this person.

(And I am, aren’t I?)

We walked past a line of benches. On one, a young man in a hooded sweatshirt sat, singing, and playing the guitar. I don’t remember the words, or the melody, or whether he was any good. But I do remember thinking: He is brave. For sitting there. For playing out. For insisting on being heard.

And we walked on. Exiting the park. Making our way. But I thought about him, that nameless man with his music and his dreams. And it made me smile. Because if we open our eyes, if we let ourselves wander and listen, there are so many messages out there. Important ones.

Like to be brave. Like to make music. Like to insist on being heard.

Thank you, mystery man.

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Do you feel like you are still getting to know your other half? Are you brave? Are you willing to be heard?

{Oh those exclamation points. This is becoming a bit of a problem…}

Calm down. I’m not pregnant again! That would certainly be happy news, but a bit soon. Little Girl is just six months and the reality is that she’s probably our last child. It is hard for me to even write this. I know that we are infinitely blessed to have a trio of happy and healthy blue-eyed babes at home, but the notion of never being pregnant again is quite tough for me. It is.

So, no. I’m not announcing that I am with child. But I am announcing a pregnancy…

Exactly one year ago today, on September 13, 2010, I shared the news here on ILI that I was pregnant with Little Girl. And today, on September 13, 2011, I am announcing that my Little Sister C is pregnant! And, get this, she is due on Little Girl’s birthday. How fun is that? Fun, I tell you.

So. I am really excited for C and her hubby N and their little dude Baby Bulldog. Those of you who have been reading my words for a while might remember the story of Baby Bulldog’s debut in this big, bad world. If you haven’t read that sweet and silly story, click here. Anyway, it’s absurd how quickly time flies. I remember that day like it was yesterday. And I remember the day I announced my own pregnancy like it was three hours ago. Time is a nutty thing.

So. We are all really excited that the Donnelley fam will continue to grow. And believe it or not, I’m not envious of C and her burgeoning belly (okay, only a bit). Just extremely pumped for them. For all of us.

C will find out whether she is expecting another boy or a girl in just a few weeks. My money’s on girl… We shall see!

Congrats, C and fam. I love you guys and can’t wait to meet your little one in a few months’ time.

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Did you honestly think I was pregnant again? Isn’t it awesome that C is due on Little Girl’s birthday? Do you think she will have a boy or a girl?

Little Girl,

Yesterday you turned six months old. A half year. This is impossible, isn’t it? Wasn’t it yesterday that you made your debut in that dimly-lit labor and delivery room? It was a Sunday morning. I realize something now. Sundays have always been tough, soggy days for me, days laced with soulfulness and sadness. But no longer. Since the day you were born, things have shifted. Sundays are good days. Family days. Thank you for this, my girl.

Thank you for so many things. For making me stop. And see. For making me ride the ripples of laughter, treasure the towers of toys, savor the sunny smiles. Thank you for making me surrender to the swell of the good life that is mine, is ours, for compelling me to stand, ever-unprepared but hopeful, as the wonderful waves – of parenthood, of personhood, of existence – buffet me. And make me.

And make you.

You.

A little person at just six months. Yesterday morning, Daddy announced something to your sisters, something grand. Girls! he proclaimed. Your little sister is a half! And for these creatures, the girls you worship, this was, is, big. They are all about fractions. And half? That’s big-time.

The past six months haven’t been a breeze for me, or for any of us really. But they have been beautiful months, months jammed with the stuff of life and love, months riddled with moments magical and mundane, always meaningful. And here we are. One half year into your life, into our final family’s existence, and I am struck with a cacophony of conflicting emotions. Stop growing! Stay little! Evolve! Become big!

Alas. It is not up to me anyway. You will do your thing. You will grow and change and emerge. You will overwhelm us and amaze us. You will keep our hearts soft, our eyes open. But here is a bit about you today: You have a head full of white-blond fuzz. It sticks straight up and out. Mom says it’s exactly like my baby hair. Your eyes are vast and almond-shaped, an electric blue. Your cheeks are impressively chunky. You are now sitting up, facing the world. You are now rolling over. You are now sleeping well, snoring softly. When I get you in the morning your smile is legendary and you do a little wiggle dance.

You are already a social creature. You have a slight preference for Mommy which I love, but you are not stingy with smiles. You have friends. I adore this picture of you and your buddy C. That was a good day, wasn’t it? The two of you on your bellies, ruffles on your rears, chubby legs kicking, celebrating.

And this? This is a picture of you and my mommy Moo Moo. She held you on Labor Day as we were packing up to head home from Grammy and Dad-Dad’s. Though it wasn’t nap-time, you nestled in and your eyes grew heavy. And I watched as you slipped into a sweet slumber. I watched as you snuggled there, wrapped in the arms that once held me tight. Arms that still do.

Honestly? This is hard for me. That you are getting bigger so fast. But this is also wonderful for me. A real treat. Watching you take on the world, a good world, your world. Our world. I love you, little creature. More than you will ever know. To tiny, itty-bitty pieces.

Happy six months, my babe.

Love,

Mommy

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If so inclined, take a moment and wish my little girl a happy day. And tell me that I am not alone in simultaneously wanting time to slow and speed. Is six months long or short?

Once upon a time, there was an overgrown girl, a thirty-two-year old woman actually. She was a wife and a mother and a daughter and a sister and a friend and an author and a blogger. And this woman had a conversation with a man, the man she loved, her Husband. Together, they realized how much she had been through, they had been through – good and bad – in the last five years. In the last five years, this woman had gotten pregnant and miscarried, gotten pregnant with her first daughter, given birth to her first daughter, purchased her forever home, watched her Dad grow ill, gotten pregnant with her second daughter, lost her Dad, found a literary agent, welcomed her second daughter, sold her first book, renovated her forever home, started a blog, published her first book, gotten pregnant with her third daughter, moved into her forever home, signed with a new agent, welcomed her third daughter. And in the midst of all these monuments, these milestones, this woman just lived her life, her good and complicated life, facing endless bouts of doubt, dreaming endless dreams, experiencing endless joys.

This woman? She felt two things: phenomenally blessed and exquisitely exhausted.

And so. On a Monday, the first day of August in the year 2011, this woman woke up and decided something. She decided that she would take a month, one little and big month, and stop. Surrender. Let go. Instead of blogging every day and worrying about content and comments, she would breathe. She would lose herself in the blue eyes of little girls and the white pages of big books. She would write and write and write some more, feeding her fiction, bringing to life a quirky creation named Clio. She would roast root vegetables and stir cucumber cocktails. She would cuddle her Husband and tickle her babies. She would take trips to the zoo and the carousel and the museum. She would sit a bit more, and stretch a bit more, and sleep a lot more.

And of course this woman would worry because that was her thing. She would worry that her friends and readers would be disappointed, that they might miss her words. But when she thought about it some more, she knew better. She knew that maybe, just maybe, they would understand, and maybe even respect her for slowing down. Maybe, just maybe, they would revere her for being more real than robot. For admitting that she too had limits. And a desire to soak it all up; the summer sweetness, the sunny smiles, the stuff of the season.

This is what she hoped at least.

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Happy August, all. See you in September!

What have you been through in the past five years? Do you forgive me for pressing pause for an entire month? Do you have any plans to slow down for the rest of the summer?