"Tell Me, Who Are You?"

Juliet will be seven months old tomorrow. We’re going to take a picture. She’ll hold a sign saying, “I am seven months old today.” I’ll hold one too. It will say, “So am I.”

We've eased into a schedule that seems to be sticking. Juliet gets up at six and goes to bed around seven. In between, she naps twice, eats five times and poops once. Sometimes, twice. That's her routine, and she runs like clockwork.

Everything else about her changes daily.

She’s not even a baby anymore. A baby is something else. Juliet has already learned to sit up and smile and mean it. She’s not a baby. She’s a person.

She loves sleeping on her side and the Baby Bjorn. Facing out, always. She likes to touch windows and mirrors. She doesn’t get either. I explained to her that a window is a wall that you put up when you don’t want a wall. I hope that she never figures out mirrors.

Juliet likes to rip paper, and crinkle grocery bags. She likes the sleeve off my Old City Coffee cup on Sunday mornings. She gnaws on it for hours, like a puppy. A lot of things she does are like a puppy. Yelping, for example.

The other day, Melissa fed Juliet baby peas. She took one bite and gagged. Melissa tried to give her another spoonful and she made an angry face.

“She learned to make an angry face,” Melissa said.

“She learned to be angry,” I said.

Loud, sudden noises infuriate her, even more than being hungry or tired. The thing she likes the least is being alone. She cries every time, even if it’s only for a few seconds. She wants us all of the time. Or our Nanny, who Juliet told me is the opposite of loud, sudden noises.

“I thought I was the opposite of loud, sudden noises,” I said.

“I thought I was,” Melissa said.

“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet said.

On our anniversary, Juliet stayed at my Mom’s house. Melissa and I had drinks at home, before dinner. Like we used to. W e had Irish Coffees with dessert. We didn’t use to do that, but we were celebrating. Not our anniversary. Just a night out. A night dressed up. A night to stay up past ten o’clock. A night of Juliet sleeping at my Mom’s house.

“You can call if you want,” I said during the walk home.

“I said I’m not going to call, and I’m not,” said Melissa. “Do you want to?”

I smile. We open our apartment door. We change out of our nice clothes, into the sweatpants that live on the floor, next to our bed. I don’t mean to, but I wander into Juliet’s room. I pick up violet, the talking dog, and I smell her.

“Where are you?” Melissa yells.

She walks into Juliet’s room and finds me, bent over Juliet’s crib, sniffing her sheets. I don’t explain. Melissa wads a sleep sack up to her nose and inhales it.

“Ahh,” she says.

“Ahh,” I say.

“Ba ba ba ba ba ba,” Juliet says.

We are seven months old tomorrow. And we’re growing up fast.