Days by the Hundreds

A lot can be accomplished in just 100 days. Napoleon went on an all-out military campaign that restored Louie the 18th to the throne. FDR kicked off one of the most influential presidential terms with a hunsky of legislative progression. Ferris Bueller could do pretty much everything there is to do in Chicago, considering he would take them all off. But for those with less ambitious goals, those who choose to relax and recline, sometimes it’s just great to be alive.

Clara, for example.

Today marks Clara’s 100th day of life. While she may have not led any European military campaigns or found jobs for those drilled by the Depression, I think she’s satisfied with her progress. In just 100 days, she’s developed a routine, responds to those around her, sleeps through the night, eats with regularity, is impressed by toys and wishes to play with them, can scoot a bit, has visited five different states and the District, and has full knowledge of the Fairfax Country utility schematic grid.

I would call her a baby genius, you know, if I wasn’t morally, ethically, and cinematically opposed to such a child classification.

A baby’s first 100 days are impossible without the support and aid of wiser, taller people she comes to know as parents. Having not yet mastered the art of transportation, things like bottle prep, taking baths, changing clothes, and retrieving the pacifier you just shot out of your mouth like a cannon explosion just wouldn’t happen. Face it kid, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. /Colonel Jessup.

And you do exactly what you need to ensure that I enjoy my end of the bargain. In the morning, you are at your best, smiling and looking around because it’s too early for something like a wet diaper to annoy you. I swear, you think you’re actually speaking English to me, but the random assortment of cooing and ahhs make your point well enough. Long story short, you’ve enjoyed your first 100 days with me, despite the fact that I’m over three times taller than you. (Let’s hope I stay taller, too. I highly doubt the WNBA will be around when you’re of pro ball playing age.)

When I get home from work, you seem genuinely excited, as I am handed you moments after dropping my briefcase and entering our home. Maybe it’s because you know I’ll be feeding you shortly, but I’ll take the enthusiasm, whatever your motives. Remember those early days when you’d spend your early evenings wailing just because you could? Ancient history, kiddo. This playing and sighing during the prime time hours is WAY better. But hey, you had 100 days to fill – I would have tried out my pipes every now and then too.

So where do you go from here?

Clara, you’re growing up. It’s time to enter that next stage in your life, the stage of independence. Now I’m not suggesting you figure out how to open the fridge or go down and get the mail, but instead, it’s time to take a little more interest in that other room off the kitchen. To date you’ve spent your nights mere feet from Mom and Dad in your Pack-and-Play. Yet I’m sure you’ve noticed in the room where we keep your clothes (and my computer desk, but that’s space utilization for you) that there’s a pastel-covered bed that may be right up your alley. There are way more plush, huggable bunny rabbits around, and a mobile of friendly revolving butterflies overhead. You’re moving up in the world, and you’ve got a place of your own. I’d hand you keys, but 1) the door is always unlocked and 2) you’d just end up chewing on them anyway.

Last night, Clara spent her first night all alone in her very own bedroom-slash-Dad’s-reduced-workspace, and she did just great. She slept by the LED light of the walkie-talkie base station while we monitored her sound breathing two rooms away. And as fun as staring at a Fisher Price one-way communications device is, I did eventually fall asleep.

Which someone took as an opportunity to check her fantasy baseball team.

Questions or Comments for the little one? E-mail clara.grace.condon@gmail.com.