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Happy 3rd Birthday Punkin!! Now I'm gonna do us both a favor and get to bed before midnight for the first time in, oh, 3 weeks? Years from now you may not appreciate this, but tomorrow you'll be happier to have a well-rested mama than a long blog post about how wonderful you are and a cranky tired mama, to boot.
I love you very much.
-mama
I've been very very very bad. I haven't written about my baby in ages. It's not that I don't care, or that I don't think about him ALL THE TIME. No, I think more likely it's because I think about him and I'm around him and I'm, you know, parenting him, every waking hour of the day (and sometimes, many times, during the non-waking hours of the day - when sane people should be SLEEPING PEACEFULLY in bed). I think it's because when I finally get an opportunity alone where I might actually have a chance to write, it's like a vacation from my job and, you know, I've got other things to do and frankly other things to think about.
But that's no excuse. My Punkin is turning into a little boy right before my eyes and if I don't write it all down I might forget what it's like to listen to his sweet voice say "Mowww Mama," and to watch him crouch over his puzzles and grunt while twisting the pieces into place, and to feel the weight of his head on my shoulder in those rare moments when I hold him and he holds back tight but peaceful and full of sweet unconditional love. I know one day that love will be tested by teenagedom and hormones and bravado. So for now I must hold tight right back and promise never ever to forget.
In the meantime, I've been trying to decipher his personality. Yeah, I know this should be a no-brainer - I mean, who can't peg their own child's personality from, like, the womb? But this kid is a tricky one. Maybe that's his personality - crafty and mischievous, tumultuous and mercurial, loving and generous, obstinate and proud. I know a lot of those descriptors sound negative, but I'm proud of his proudness when he carries his finished puzzle into the kitchen for me to see and requests, "Mama 'ump?" And I see a bit of myself in his stubbornness when he asks over and over "Nana? Nana? Nana?" as he points to the fruit basket. And when his mischievous grin creeps across his little face and the little wheels spin faster and faster behind those dark, round eyes, I know he can thank his father for his quick thinking and creative mind. He will never be taken for granted, never forgotten or unseen.
Now if only he will learn how to dance with others...
Friends make excellent back rests...
motivators...
travel mates...
and study buddies...
Here's to you my friend...
There are certain things I should write down, for the sake of posterity, so when you’re thirty and maybe have your own kids I can actually tell you what you were like as a one year old. So here’s the list:
Favorite Foods: Blueberries, hands down. Followed closely by grapes (aka Baby Crack). Raisins, dried blueberries and Goji berries are tied for third. Yogurt, by itself, or mixed with anything you thought you didn’t like. Everything else is just dog food.
Your many wiles: Master at applause and slippin’ some skin. Recently achieved a manual sayonara (that’s bye-bye). Practicing ambulation, with a little assistance of course.
And your wills: Smell the flowers. All of them. Over. And over. And over again. Drink from your mama’s cup, or dad’s. Put the top on. On anything. And take it off again. Chase and be chased. Open and close doors. Never be cleaned, except if it involves full body immersion, duckies, and splashing. Lots of splashing.
Sounds: Mamamama. Dadadada. Dah. Ohhhh. Ommmmmm (my little buddha).
The greatest thing(s): Your sound effects as you careen through the living room behind your trusty steed, the chomp n’ clack.
In rare moments, lucky moments, you remember how, and briefly, without barely noticing, you give me a kiss on the cheek.
Your contagious belly laugh.
Last week was Punkin’s birthday. Normally, I would have been all over this posting and actually gotten it up on time. The truth is, I’ve been really putting off writing about this day. I don’t want to relive the day, not yet anyway. But I must, before the details grow fuzzy and yet another adventure takes its place in my less-than-perfect memory bank. I’ve also been struggling with how best to describe what was quite possibly THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE. Or at least the worst 4 hours of my life. Seriously. Worse than giving birth even. Appropriate being as how it was the 1 year anniversary of that momentous, exhausting, traumatic and exhilarating event.
Ok, so just what was it that made Mr. P’s anniversaire so effroyable (that’s horrible in French - sounds kinda like f’ing incredible - appropriate)? The long version or the short? Let’s go for the short - I don’t got much time.
I found out the hard way that Punkin is quite allergic to eggs. Yes, hives, swollen eyes, itching, sneezing, nose dripping, and, la piece de resistance, projectile vomiting. All over mom-mom (and mom-mom’s favorite morning time fleecy sweater). And the bed. And the rug. Not the dog (how does she escape culinary karma?). And all over himself, poor kid. You see, I had the brilliant idea that on his 1st birthday Punkin would have the delectable delight of eating his very first scrambled egg. I had put off introducing highly allergenic foods like a good little diligent mama until he reached the appropriate age, despite all his other baby friends eating cheese and eggs and bread for weeks before him. But social pressure finally got the better of me and I knew I couldn’t keep my little monster in a mama bubble forever. So eggs. Why not? Well, I’ll tell you why not. Hives, swollen eyes, itching, sneezing, runny nose, and projectile vomiting. That’s why not. Not to mention anxiety, adrenaline, exhaustion, crying, and, finally, holding a 25 lb puffy-faced toddler for 4 hours straight.
He better not be allergic to chocolate or Easter is really going to suck.
Thank god the rest of the birthday was uneventful. Oma arrived in time to see the fading puffy eyes, Veggie got to spend a day home from work (yay!), and by dinner time Punkin was back to his old belly-laughing self. We didn’t get around to birthday “cake” (bowl of fruit topped with goat milk yogurt and a candle) or the obligatory 1st birthday haircut, but I promise our little Terry Bradshaw won’t go the way of Ryder Robinson or Presley Gerber.
There have been other events this month that shouldn’t be overshadowed by his near-death experience. Like clapping, signing for more and milk, feeding himself with a spoon and sippy cup, pointing, walking behind his M&D push toy, standing for a few seconds unassisted, all those simple new skills that make mamas go googoo and non-breeders roll their eyes. The past month has been developmental overdrive...next up: walking, talking, dating and making his parents feel like total dorks...oh wait, we already do...
I’m sitting here listening to the muffled sounds of digitally recorded waves crashing on a beach somewhere, waiting for your dad to be released from your tenacious, sleepy grasp and come join me on the couch. This is how many of our nights go these days: I try to put you to sleep, your dad tries to put you to sleep, your dad falls asleep trying to put you to sleep, I sit on the couch and wait...and wait...You see the problem is your heavy, warm, sleeping body is intoxicating and, well, your dad is a very tired man. So now you two lie there, sound asleep, and I wait.
This month I released you from your jail. Don’t be mad, the jail was for your own good. But now the house is much safer for you, so you can be free. And that’s a good thing, ‘cause the minute I freed you, the wheels began to turn and the world - well the house, anyway - became your oyster. No room is too scary, no shelf unreachable, no door un-swingable. All untouchables are now touchable and man you just can’t get enough of your freedom. I’ve tried many ways to entice you to stay and play with me and your toys, but you refuse to come like a dog when I call you and, frankly, I admire your independence. Crawling all over the house has exposed you to much more dirt, dust and dog hair. It coats the palm of your hands and the bottom of your pants, and my OCD brain can’t stand that, but I try to let it go, I do.
In the size department: You haven’t grown much this month, you’re only 24 lbs and change, but I think that’s normal. You still tower over the other 11 month olds and your head is at least twice as large.
Your powers of observation are clearly hard at work now. Today you picked up the remote, held it up high, and turned to point it at the tv. I’m in trouble. You also figured out the shape sorter and the ring stacker. You sit and play by yourself with such determination and concentration, it reminds me so much of your dad. I swear your sorting your toys, organizing them, putting them in piles in your imagination and then moving them from one pile to another. If I could have just one peek into your little brain...
At the end of this month will be your first birthday. One whole year has passed and I’ve only just now begun to write things down. There’s so much that has happened, so many milestones have passed, so much we have learned about you and so much you have learned about the world. I selfishly don’t want that One Year mark to come, because then you will no longer be a baby. You’ll be venturing further into the world, becoming more and more independent, less and less attached to me. You won’t let me pick you up and hug you without struggling to get back to your games. I know all this is part of growing up. But it’s just happening too fast. So, for the next month, can you stay a baby, just for a little while longer? Thanks.
Love,
Mom-mom
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