Dear Kid: Month 3

Dear Kid,

Last Friday you turned three months old, which means that, as of today, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 99 days. Tomorrow you will be 100 days old. Hopefully some day you will be 100 years old.

I would have gotten this letter to you last week, but for the past seven days we’ve been preparing to take you on a road trip to go to the grocery store. Just kidding. Getting you ready doesn’t take seven days. Actually, people become doctors in less time than it takes to get you ready to leave the house.

We know this, because you started day care this week. Your father and I had visions of grandeur about how our supremely organized mornings would be in order to expedite this process. The only thing we forgot about is your ability to have a complete blowout just as we’re preparing to place you in the car seat. A blow out so huge that it required an entire wardrobe change. Then there was that bottle of milk that exploded all over your diaper bag. Expressed breast milk. That one wasn’t your fault, but that was understandably the event that brought tears to my eyes.

So. Day care. Your day care provider loves you so far (well done, son, well done). We’re glad because we sure like her. Your father drops you off at day care and then I get to be the hero and pick you up, and so far you’ve dazzled each arrival and exit with smiles, and that makes us feel good. Though after your father dropped you off that first day I’m fairly confident he cried. (He might not have ACTUALLY shed tears but I know he probably wanted to, because when he called me after dropping you off he sounded like maybe the world had decided to take away college football. And All Blacks rugby. And Doritos. ON THE SAME DAY.)

He was sad to drop you off because basically you’re the nicest baby we’ve ever been around. No kidding. I mean, I get it, you’re OUR kid. But you also happen to be freaking awesome in all the other “technical” awesome baby ways too. You hardly cry, you sleep 8 hours a night now (and when you don’t, your dad feeds you…HOLLER!), and you even let us eat hot meals because you like laying on this thing that has other things hanging from it. You grab those things and squeal quite loudly. Shit, if that type of stuff continues to entertain you we’ll just give you our unused key chains for Christmas. Funsies!

The other thing that entertains you is your Gramma. She watched you the first week I went back to work. You guys are like BFF’s now. No kidding. I know when you get to junior high it might not seem that cool to be BFF’s with your Gramma, but we can keep it on the down low publicly as long as you can keep it real when she comes around.

We continue to learn new things about how we’re supposed to be taking care of you. Everyday when your father comes out of the bathroom, as a matter of fact, he shares a new tidbit that he’s learned from what we now refer to as “The Book.” It’s this big book that is supposed to tell us everything about how we’re supposed to care for you during the first year of your life. So far, we’ve discovered that we’ve only almost killed you 4 times. One of them had to do with lead poisoning. No big deal.

Anyway, we’ve learned other stuff from you too, which is weird because you’re only 99 days old. Like, wtf could you possibly teach us, right? A lot actually. Like, for example, I don’t actually miss going out on the town and drinking and singing Pat Benatar at karaoke as much as I thought I would because I’d actually rather stay home and clean up you stinky poo. Explain that one to me.

Maybe when you start having man poops that will change.

Listen, the point I’m trying to make here is that I’ve discovered that before you came along I was basically a selfish person, and I was totally comfortable staying that way. You make me a little less so.

So...thank you for that. And thank you for sleeping 8 hours again last night. That too.


Your Momma.

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