Dear baby boy,
Today, you are nine months old! It's interesting--when your sister was a baby, I always thought she seemed so grown up, even when she was younger than a year. You, though . . . you're my baby. Even when you learned to sit up, crawl, eat real table food, wave . . . all of it . . . you still seemed so young. But nine months? Nine months sounds so old. You're not a little baby any more. You're a big boy, doing big boy things. I'm both excited and saddened beyond words that, day after day, you keep growing up.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, the first year is SO amazing! Nine short months ago, you were a tiny, wriggly, snuggly, sleepy, helpless little newborn. Now? Now, baby boy, you are amazing. The things you've learned this month have left me shaking my head and smiling and laughing in bewilderment and amazement. You do adorable things like clapping and pointing at things. Your communication has exploded this month--you are starting to sign "more" and "all done." And, most amazing of all, you have started to talk!!
I first noticed when you were done nursing. You'd wave your arms to sign "all done" and then you'd say something that sounded remarkably like "ah-dah." I thought it was a fluke the first time, but after hearing you say it two, three, five, ten times, I knew it was true. You were saying "all done!" I told your daddy about it and that I didn't really want your first words to be "all done," and you know what he told me? "He's been saying 'ball' for a couple of weeks now." WHAT?! And then when I was telling your day care teacher this story, she said, "Oh yeah, he's been saying 'duck,' too." WHAT?!?!!? And then today, I swear I heard "book." It's still mostly babbles, but I'm so excited and amazed at how communicative you are already--even your babbles sound like full-blown conversations, complete with facial and vocal expressions. You are brilliant, baby boy.
Not only are your communication skills growing by leaps and bounds, but your physical skills continue to amaze (and scare!) me. To start with, you are, apparently, a climber. You show no fear in things that are too high or too low for you to reach--we've caught you climbing on top of toys, benches, steps . . . really anything you can get your little legs up onto. And if you are sitting on the couch (with me or Dad, of course) and you see something on the ground you want, you just go for it. There's no thought to "I'm about to fall off a piece of furniture." You just lunge your body at the ground and trust that we'll catch you. You do the same when I sit you at the top of the little plastic slide in the back yard--immediately thrust yourself down the slide with a huge smile on your face, trusting that I'll catch you. I have a feeling you're going to keep us on our toes, little boy.
And then there's the standing. That's right. Standing. At 8 months. I first noticed it when I was walking by one evening and you were standing between your dad's legs, both hands on a toy you had crammed into your poor teething mouth. "Um, look at Sam," I said to your dad. Of course, right then, you fell. When I told him you had just been standing there, not holding onto anything, he laughed and said I needed more sleep. And then you did it again, the next day. And you've continued to do it ever since. You are most stable when you're distracted and not thinking about it, but sure enough, you are standing on your own. When you combine that with the speed at which you are cruising along furniture now and moving back and forth from the coffee table to the couch, and I see the writing on the wall. Your dad and granddad have a bet about when you'll be walking: Dad thinks 10 months, Granddaddy thinks 11. I think mom wins if you're doing it at NINE.
Notice above where I said "poor teething mouth"? You broke another three teeth this month, bringing the grand total to six. Six teeth in seven weeks. You really don't have to do it all at once, you know. I believe that you're a big, strong boy even without you proving it like this.
The ultra-teething, combined with your continued on-again, off-again illnesses this month, have continued to do a number on your sleep. The last couple of weeks have been much better, though. You are going to sleep without too much of a struggle and are back to waking once a night to eat. We are still rocking you to sleep. I know we're going to have to break ourselves of that habit here pretty soon, but in all honesty, I have really loved rocking you to sleep every night. Most of the time it's easy, and I love holding your sweet sleeping form in my arms, love hearing your slow, deep, sleeping breath, love how at peace and comfortable you are in my arms. I know it's important that you learn to put yourself to sleep, but I will be so sad when the day comes that we have to start working on that. Until then, I will just soak up those dark, quiet, sleepy moments we still have.
Your pediatrician has also said that we really don't need to be feeding you at night anymore, but the thing is, your weight gain really suffered from the long months we tried to get you to take bottles and from the sick stretch this winter. Not only did you not gain as much as I'd like, you actually lost weight while you were sick. You are back on track now, and your eating is going great, but until I'm more comfortable with where you are, weight wise, I'm going to just keep on feeding you whenever you wake up hungry.
As for food, you are really doing great! We're on about half purees, half finger foods now (when you were six months old, you would NOT let us feed you purees, so we started with finger foods; then you got sick and stopped eating finger foods and started liking purees; now we are working you back toward finger foods again! You sure do keep us on our toes.). Your favorites are black beans, green beans, wheat bagel, graham crackers, apple slices, and veggie puffs. Oh, and meat! You LOVE meat! Any kind of meat so far has been a win . . . you even loved gnawing on the rib bones from our local barbecue restaurant. You still won't take bottles, so we've just stopped trying. I use my lunch break to nurse you every day. I know our nursing relationship is another thing, like the rocking to sleep, that won't last forever, so I'm trying to savor every moment while it lasts.
You are nine months old. Cruising. Talking. And still the cutest little boy that anyone's ever seen. Strangers come up to us all the time and tell us how adorable you are. Especially your eyes. Your dark, twinkly, gorgeous eyes. You smile at anyone and everyone, and love to talk-talk-talk in your special baby language. And still, still you snuggle me, bury your face in my neck, touch your forehead to mine. You are such a sweet boy, and you make every day sweeter for me, your sister, your dad.
Love you to the ends of the universe and beyond,
Mom
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Inside Out Day
Last Friday was your inside-out day, baby boy.
The day that marked the tipping point between time spent growing inside me and time spend growing outside me.
268 days inside me. 268 days outside me.
I didn't get to write your blog post on the actual day, but I looked up when your inside-out day was a few days before, and on Friday, I paused for a moment and smiled. I thought of all that time you were inside me, and all this time you've been outside. I paused and I smiled and I marked the day in my heart of hearts.
What on earth did I ever do before you were an outside baby, before you graced my days and hours and minutes with your sweet smile and your easy laugh and your twinkling eyes? You filled a part of my life that I never even knew was missing. The last 268 days really have been the happiest of my life. No matter how harried I get at work, no matter how tired I am from lack of sleep, there is a level of permanent contentment deep in my soul that no temporary feelings of stress can touch.
And you are such a big part of that contentment.
For the last 268 days, I've been able to kiss your elbow dimple and say "ma-ma-ma" against your cheek and feel your breath on my neck as you sit and quietly snuggle with me. I've heard you squeal with delight and heard your first words. I've seen you crawl and throw a ball and stand and walk along furniture. Inside babies are nice, but outside babies fill your heart and your arms and your eyes in the most delicious ways possible.
But the first 268 days were their own kind of special. You grew perfectly inside me. You and I were never apart. I was never alone. I could reach down at any point, in any mood, and feel a bulge that belonged to you, and love you and know that you were right there with me. But more than the constant companionship, I knew that for those 268 days, you were protected. I could keep you safe and healthy. No cold would touch you, no germs, no illnesses. You never cried. You never needed anything.
In a world where mothers want nothing more than to love and protect their children, those first 268 days were our honeymoon.
I guess growing up is a gradual movement from safety to vulnerability, but also from passivity to interactivity, to fun. That is to say, the older you get, the harder it is to take care of you but the more fun it is at the same time.
So happy inside-out day. You are now more a child of the world than of the womb. 268 days from now and you'll have likely had your first scrapes and bruises. You'll probably have gotten sick a few more times. You might even start to have tantrums, begun those battles with feelings of frustration and injustice. We'll probably have had to start some kind of limitations, some kind of discipline. But you'll also be walking (running!) and talking. You'll know how to play games. You'll be learning your letters and colors and shapes. And you and your sister will be able to play together for hours and hours and hours.
I wish I could protect you forever.
But always know that we mothers let go so that you can experience the thrill of flight for yourself.
The day that marked the tipping point between time spent growing inside me and time spend growing outside me.
268 days inside me. 268 days outside me.
I didn't get to write your blog post on the actual day, but I looked up when your inside-out day was a few days before, and on Friday, I paused for a moment and smiled. I thought of all that time you were inside me, and all this time you've been outside. I paused and I smiled and I marked the day in my heart of hearts.
What on earth did I ever do before you were an outside baby, before you graced my days and hours and minutes with your sweet smile and your easy laugh and your twinkling eyes? You filled a part of my life that I never even knew was missing. The last 268 days really have been the happiest of my life. No matter how harried I get at work, no matter how tired I am from lack of sleep, there is a level of permanent contentment deep in my soul that no temporary feelings of stress can touch.
And you are such a big part of that contentment.
For the last 268 days, I've been able to kiss your elbow dimple and say "ma-ma-ma" against your cheek and feel your breath on my neck as you sit and quietly snuggle with me. I've heard you squeal with delight and heard your first words. I've seen you crawl and throw a ball and stand and walk along furniture. Inside babies are nice, but outside babies fill your heart and your arms and your eyes in the most delicious ways possible.
But the first 268 days were their own kind of special. You grew perfectly inside me. You and I were never apart. I was never alone. I could reach down at any point, in any mood, and feel a bulge that belonged to you, and love you and know that you were right there with me. But more than the constant companionship, I knew that for those 268 days, you were protected. I could keep you safe and healthy. No cold would touch you, no germs, no illnesses. You never cried. You never needed anything.
In a world where mothers want nothing more than to love and protect their children, those first 268 days were our honeymoon.
I guess growing up is a gradual movement from safety to vulnerability, but also from passivity to interactivity, to fun. That is to say, the older you get, the harder it is to take care of you but the more fun it is at the same time.
So happy inside-out day. You are now more a child of the world than of the womb. 268 days from now and you'll have likely had your first scrapes and bruises. You'll probably have gotten sick a few more times. You might even start to have tantrums, begun those battles with feelings of frustration and injustice. We'll probably have had to start some kind of limitations, some kind of discipline. But you'll also be walking (running!) and talking. You'll know how to play games. You'll be learning your letters and colors and shapes. And you and your sister will be able to play together for hours and hours and hours.
I wish I could protect you forever.
But always know that we mothers let go so that you can experience the thrill of flight for yourself.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Ditto.
Read this.
Especially moms of girls.
But really, if you have a kid, or know someone who has a kid, or ever interact with someone who has a kid or with that person's kids, read this.
http://viewsfromthecouch.com/2012/02/12/you-didnt-thank-me-for-punching-you-in-the-fac/
I give it a big, fat DITTO.
Especially moms of girls.
But really, if you have a kid, or know someone who has a kid, or ever interact with someone who has a kid or with that person's kids, read this.
http://viewsfromthecouch.com/2012/02/12/you-didnt-thank-me-for-punching-you-in-the-fac/
I give it a big, fat DITTO.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The King and Queen of Drama
A coworker and friend of mine just started her little boy at my kids' day care. She actually had her older son there first, and recommended the place to me when I was pregnant with baby girl, so she knows all the teachers already.
She came by yesterday to chat about how the first couple of days back at work have been for her. She always lets me know when she sees little man when she's there visiting her son and often gives me little updates on what he was doing. One time he was irate because one of the other boys had done something or other to him. We laughed about how he and that baby don't really get along. Well, yesterday she told me he had been playing quite happily with the other boy.
"Oh, good!" I said. "No drama." And I smiled. Because I am the first to admit my kids are, well, dramatic.
"I know!" she exclaimed. "Ms. Teacher told me they don't even call him by his name. They just call him 'Drama King' and everyone knows who they're talking about. She said they don't call his sister by name, either. They just say, 'Drama Queen' and everyone knows who they're talking about."
I smiled through all this. Laughed at the end of it. But inside my stomach shrank to an ice cube.
The teachers at my kids' school call them the "Drama King" and "Drama Queen"? They don't even refer to them by name anymore?
My initial reaction to this was indignation. Aside from the fact that this teacher is talking about my kids with another parent, they don't even refer to them by name anymore . . . they just call them "Drama King" and "Drama Queen."
Indignation and anger.
But then, there was a little voice in my head that said . . . "so what?"
Yes, my kids are dramatic. But you know what that means? That means that they are passionate and expressive. That means that they are confident enough to stand up for themselves when they feel they've been wronged.
Do I really want to raise children who are passive and meek, children who quietly follow others because they lack the guts to blaze their own trails?
Hell no.
If I could pick attributes for my adult children to have, passion would certainly be near the top of the list. To raise a child who is passionate, who thinks for him or herself, who is strong enough to stand up for him/herself, who isn't afraid of expressing him/herself . . . if I can do that then I know I'll have been a successful parent, will have set my children up as best as I could for success.
Strength. Passion. Expressiveness. Confidence. Spirit.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.
So go ahead. Call my kids Drama Royalty.
I'm damned proud of them for it.
She came by yesterday to chat about how the first couple of days back at work have been for her. She always lets me know when she sees little man when she's there visiting her son and often gives me little updates on what he was doing. One time he was irate because one of the other boys had done something or other to him. We laughed about how he and that baby don't really get along. Well, yesterday she told me he had been playing quite happily with the other boy.
"Oh, good!" I said. "No drama." And I smiled. Because I am the first to admit my kids are, well, dramatic.
"I know!" she exclaimed. "Ms. Teacher told me they don't even call him by his name. They just call him 'Drama King' and everyone knows who they're talking about. She said they don't call his sister by name, either. They just say, 'Drama Queen' and everyone knows who they're talking about."
I smiled through all this. Laughed at the end of it. But inside my stomach shrank to an ice cube.
The teachers at my kids' school call them the "Drama King" and "Drama Queen"? They don't even refer to them by name anymore?
My initial reaction to this was indignation. Aside from the fact that this teacher is talking about my kids with another parent, they don't even refer to them by name anymore . . . they just call them "Drama King" and "Drama Queen."
Indignation and anger.
But then, there was a little voice in my head that said . . . "so what?"
Yes, my kids are dramatic. But you know what that means? That means that they are passionate and expressive. That means that they are confident enough to stand up for themselves when they feel they've been wronged.
Do I really want to raise children who are passive and meek, children who quietly follow others because they lack the guts to blaze their own trails?
Hell no.
If I could pick attributes for my adult children to have, passion would certainly be near the top of the list. To raise a child who is passionate, who thinks for him or herself, who is strong enough to stand up for him/herself, who isn't afraid of expressing him/herself . . . if I can do that then I know I'll have been a successful parent, will have set my children up as best as I could for success.
Strength. Passion. Expressiveness. Confidence. Spirit.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.
So go ahead. Call my kids Drama Royalty.
I'm damned proud of them for it.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Happy
Yesterday, when I picked you up from school, as I buckled your brother into his car seat, you begged to go play in the soft motor room.
"Okay," I told you, "you can go down there and play for one minute. But when I come down with Sammy, it's going to be time to go, okay?"
"Okay!" you squealed, running off. You only got about two steps away before you turned around to give me the book you were holding. "I'm going to go play now!" you said again, turning to run. You got about four steps away and then returned, bringing me your stuffed bunny to hold. With your hands now empty, you told me, "I'm going to go down to the soft motor room to play!" and turned once again to go. But then you paused, the excitement of special playtime shining in your eyes. "I'm going to go play, but then I want you and baby Sammy to come down and play WITH me for just one minute!"
How could I say no? "Okay," I smiled, "but just for ONE minute. Now go, hurry! Run, run, run!"
You turned to run, and then looked back again. "You . . ."
"Yes, Sammy and I are going to come down and play with you."
"Okay," you smiled. And then you turned and ran. You were wearing a purple track suit with aqua stripes. You looked like a tiny little track star. Your hair was falling in a curly mess around your head, half of it loose from the pony tail I had put in neatly that morning. As you ran, I stopped and watched. You ran down the hall, your tiny, 2-yr-old legs working hard. When you run, you lift your right leg up higher than your left, resulting in a bouncing trot that makes all the curls on your head bounce and sway.
You ran away down the hall, and suddenly I thought of all the halls I'd watch you walk down in your life, all the times you would head off independently to live your own adventure. I saw you walking away from me to the safety of your classroom in elementary school, to dances in middle school, to your friends in high school. I wanted to freeze time, right then, capture you running, the pumping legs, the bouncing curls, the joy splashed across your face.
You turned at the end of the hall and saw me watching you, and you called out, your face etched with excitement, "Come play with me, Mommy!
"Come play with me!"
I smiled and picked up your stuffed bunny, your book, my hands and heart both full of the trappings of toddlerhood.
"Come play with me, Mommy!"
I am, baby girl. I'm coming to play with you. To dive into your world of magic and make-believe and the thrill of playing in the soft motor room at the end of the day.
I am coming to play with you, basking, bathing in the moment, the glory of your youth and your innocence and your exuberance and your desire for me to share it all with you, your need to have me close, to have me join you in your bliss.
In knowing that I am part of your bliss.
I wish I could have grabbed that moment and put it into a charm to wear around my neck for the rest of eternity.
You are my joy, my blessing.
And I'm thankful for every moment when the world around us stops and our hearts connect and your sweet voice rings in my ears (Come play with me, Mommy!) and my happiness swallows me up.
"Okay," I told you, "you can go down there and play for one minute. But when I come down with Sammy, it's going to be time to go, okay?"
"Okay!" you squealed, running off. You only got about two steps away before you turned around to give me the book you were holding. "I'm going to go play now!" you said again, turning to run. You got about four steps away and then returned, bringing me your stuffed bunny to hold. With your hands now empty, you told me, "I'm going to go down to the soft motor room to play!" and turned once again to go. But then you paused, the excitement of special playtime shining in your eyes. "I'm going to go play, but then I want you and baby Sammy to come down and play WITH me for just one minute!"
How could I say no? "Okay," I smiled, "but just for ONE minute. Now go, hurry! Run, run, run!"
You turned to run, and then looked back again. "You . . ."
"Yes, Sammy and I are going to come down and play with you."
"Okay," you smiled. And then you turned and ran. You were wearing a purple track suit with aqua stripes. You looked like a tiny little track star. Your hair was falling in a curly mess around your head, half of it loose from the pony tail I had put in neatly that morning. As you ran, I stopped and watched. You ran down the hall, your tiny, 2-yr-old legs working hard. When you run, you lift your right leg up higher than your left, resulting in a bouncing trot that makes all the curls on your head bounce and sway.
You ran away down the hall, and suddenly I thought of all the halls I'd watch you walk down in your life, all the times you would head off independently to live your own adventure. I saw you walking away from me to the safety of your classroom in elementary school, to dances in middle school, to your friends in high school. I wanted to freeze time, right then, capture you running, the pumping legs, the bouncing curls, the joy splashed across your face.
You turned at the end of the hall and saw me watching you, and you called out, your face etched with excitement, "Come play with me, Mommy!
"Come play with me!"
I smiled and picked up your stuffed bunny, your book, my hands and heart both full of the trappings of toddlerhood.
"Come play with me, Mommy!"
I am, baby girl. I'm coming to play with you. To dive into your world of magic and make-believe and the thrill of playing in the soft motor room at the end of the day.
I am coming to play with you, basking, bathing in the moment, the glory of your youth and your innocence and your exuberance and your desire for me to share it all with you, your need to have me close, to have me join you in your bliss.
In knowing that I am part of your bliss.
I wish I could have grabbed that moment and put it into a charm to wear around my neck for the rest of eternity.
You are my joy, my blessing.
And I'm thankful for every moment when the world around us stops and our hearts connect and your sweet voice rings in my ears (Come play with me, Mommy!) and my happiness swallows me up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
