Dear Sava

This post is for you. Today you are almost exactly ten and a half months old. I love you to death, and I am thankful for each moment I get to spend around you.

Tonight I feel bad because I got mad at you. You ate little during the day, and you have eaten little for the past five days or so. This eating a few days, not eating several days after that, has been a cycle in your life since you were about four months old. Much of the time I take it in stride, but sometimes it gets to me, and I feel discouraged and deflated. Because we stopped nursing when you were about seven and a half months old (you were not taking enough most days), but you are allergic to dairy and soy and therefore unable to drink regular baby formula, I have had to pump milk for you for the past three months or so. I pump five times a day, for what must be a total of several hours. Sometimes while I do it I read online newspapers and magazines or browse an internet forum for other babies born in April, 2006. Sometimes I manage to read a book or a real magazine. Much of the time I pump without thinking about it, and the time goes by. Occasionally, though, I feel really exhausted, and I resent being tied to a machine. If those days coincide with the days when you are not eating, I end up feeling frustrated with you for not eating like other 'normal' babies.

I know this is NOT your fault. You are a wonderful child, and I cherish each of your smiles more than words can say; I watch you each day in awe as you bring your boundless curiosity to all things big and small, from green leaves to light switches to frying pans. Because I love you so much, feeling angry at you breaks my heart. But some days I just can't help it. And your dad, who is the most wonderful man in the entire world, gets very sad because he cannot help me.

Tonight when we put you to bed I fought you to make you drink a bottle of hypoallergenic formula; it stinks, so you wanted to have none of it. (I wouldn't either.) When I got frustrated, I handed you over to daddy, who gave you another bottle of the breastmilk that you know and like. I was so angry that I could not give you the other bottle, but as soon as I left the room, I felt like crying. And I cried. I cried because I love you so much, and yet I don't know how to help you eat more and feel better. I cried because I feel that by getting angry I am giving up. I cried because I am ready for you to start enjoying real food, but I don't know how to get you there; you still like mostly breastmilk, and you treat most other food as mere recreation; you will eat some things here and there (these days, by the way, you love zucchini), but you won't eat enough of them to make a difference; you also will not take a spoon, which on bad days like this one I take as a personal rejection--as if something about how I take care of you makes you distrust me and not want to take food from me. I know this is likely not the case, but sometimes it's hard to think otherwise.

So, all this to say that I am sorry I got angry at you tonight. I hope you sleep well and wake up feeling better.

p.s. Today you waved for the first time and said "bye," though your dad had already left for work, so I was the only one who saw and heard it. As far as I can tell, "bye" is your first word! (unless we count other strange combinations of syllables which mean nothing to us, but might mean something to you). You are also already a master at answering "how big will you become?" ("kolko goliam shte porasnesh?") by raising both of your arms above your head; in fact, sometimes you do it even if we have not asked you; I think you like to see us swoon with joy and pride.
p.p.s. You also officially have four teeth now! The top two have broken through, and you have a winsome smile; still hard to capture on camera, though.