Back in June, when my mom was here looking after Elaine while I returned to work, we all agreed that Elaine was working on popping her first tooth. Any day. We had to change her clothes several times each day because her entire torso was usually sopping with drool. She was enthusiastic -- nay, obsessed -- with putting anything and everything into her mouth. (Fingers. Shoulders. The edges of tables. Noses. Her own toes.) Every single photograph we have of her, there is a thread of spit dangling off her chin. You should have seen Elaine, too.
HA! Just kidding, Mom.
Anyway, it's now October, which if you'll consult a handy calendar you'll note is FOUR MONTHS later. It finally came. Lainey made some headway as far as earning the nickname Complainey last week, protesting her way through meals, roaring when it was time to go to sleep, squealing shrilly when one of her toys had the nerve to slide out of her slobbery fingers and hit the ground. We hoped, crossed our fingers, knew it had to be leading somewhere. And finally, on Saturday, just after we'd finished taking a run together, I managed a peek at Elaine's lower gums (to which she'd been blocking access with a freakishly strong tongue for many days) and there it was: a tiny white blade poking through, right next to an even tinier dot of blood. I misted up and crowed my elation, but really I thought: holy crap. This baby is determined to grow up on me. And even though my heart swells with each milestone she passes, I don't want her to change any more. I want her to stay just as her small, perfect self is right this moment. I know it will seem like about five minutes pass before she's wiggling that little tooth around with her tongue and asking me about the Tooth Fairy. I won't even go into a long, sappy stream of consciousness about all the snapshots of her life I can envision following that one. I just want her to know, someday, that I was so proud of her for pushing her first little tooth through on October 25. And I would like her to stop growing now.
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