On Monday you turn 10 months old. This means that, to date, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 306 days. If you’re wondering why I haven’t written you a letter for the last four months, it’s because…
Semisi, no.
Semisi.
Semisi.
Don’t grab that cord.
No, don’t grab that either.
No, dog food is not for you.
…you’ve kept us pretty busy as of…
Semisi.
Semisi.
No, don’t chew on that closet door. Yucky.
Maybe not that iron banister either.
OMFG, where did you find that nail? I didn’t even think we owned “a” nail.
Fine. Fine. Play with this milk carton. Fun fun fun fun fun.
As I was saying, it’s been crazy around these parts since you’ve been on the…
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!!!!!!
Ehem. Sorry about that. I’m back. Don’t worry. I’ve locked you in the closet with a ribeye steak bone and a copy of Men’s Health, so I should be good for the next 30 seconds until you Houdini yourself in to the sleeve of your father’s winter jacket, unlock the door with your tongue, roll over to the stairwell and proceed to set yourself on fire. The good news is that you’ll be smiling the whole time.
So we’ve got THAT going for us, which is nice.
To say that you’ve made physical progress in the past few months is understating it just a tad. At nine months you were a million inches long and 22 pounds. God only knows how big you’ve gotten since then. You’ve also got a giant noggin. We’re hoping this means you have a huge brain, but given the fact that currently your two favorite toys are your plastic clothes hangers and a milk carton, we’re not so sure.
Not that you’re not smart – you are, I think. For example, you say Dadda a lot.
Can you say momma?
No, not dadda, MOM-MA.
Momma.
Say momma.
Go ahead son. Say it. MAAAAAA MAAAAAA.
Nope, that’s the other one again. Nice try, son. [SIDE EYE PAUL.]
You say it so often, in fact, that I’m fairly confident this is THE ONLY WORD YOUR FATHER MUST EVER SAY WHILE HE’S ALONE WITH YOU.
Back to what I was saying, though - physically you are one solid kid. You’re a tank, actually. We call you bam bam, because your morning typically consists of bench pressing a laundry basket full of clothing, doing one arm pull-ups off of our dining room table, and wrestling this god awful obnoxious thing:
(SIDE EYE ANGIE)
Your saving grace in all the mayhem and general destruction that you carry with you is that you're darn cheerful about everything. Already you’re able to charm your way out of most situations, and your non-verbal communication is top notch. For example, when you don’t like a new food we’re feeding you, you do this:
Yes, it’s annoying that you don’t like kiwi, but your ability to eject every single bite I fed you into a tidy pile on your bib in order to communicate that message is greatly appreciated.
I’m sure your day care provider will be pleased.
Speaking of your daycare provider, whom we shall from this point on refer to as “The Saint of Wonder and Enlightenment for All Things Small and Destructive,” you’ve gone back to stay with her during the day again. You had the pleasure of spending your summer with your Dad, thanks to his work schedule. As a result, Gus the dog takes a cocktail of anti-anxiety medication and has basically become the Emily Dickinson of the dog world. He prefers to watch the children from afar while writing poetry with random stanzas and dashes. He even wears white.
Your father enjoyed this time with you, though he made negative progress on the Honey Do list entitled SUMMER PROJECTS. I had a hard time understanding this initially, until I had the long overdue pleasure of spending an afternoon alone with you once you’d become mobile. After that afternoon, I called Gus’ vet and said I’LL HAVE WHAT HE’S HAVING, TIMES 10.
Just kidding. You’re really not that bad when you’re not destroying everything within a one mile radius.
In fact, you’re better than not that bad. Recently you’ve really developed a larger than life personality, and it’s damn fun to watch, kid. You clap when we clap, you shriek, and just last night we got you to bust out a little “So big!” When other people had kids and they’d be like, “Watch my kid do SOOOO BIG” I’d watch and act like it was cool while inside secretly think “Yeah, great, when he makes you a dirty martini, call me.” But when you do it, I’m convinced you break the world record of all things cute and smart. God knows WHAT my reaction will be when, on that sacred day, you turn to me and say – “Gimlet or Gibson, mother? Shaken or stirred?”
"I'll take a bloody mary son - it's only 10:00 a.m. When you can tell time, this will be easier."
Speaking of things that happen before noon, my favorite time of the day has now become the morning. I KNOW! I can’t believe it either. Truth is, I’ve stumbled upon the cure for those suffering from acute asshole-ish-ness, which is to allow them the distinct pleasure of being the first person to walk in to your room in the morning.
Turns out 12 hours of slumber does you good, little man. For starters, you don’t wake up screaming. You talk to yourself for a good 10 minutes until you feel like standing up. Then you begin to give a few shout outs to us, as if to say, “Duuuuuuuudes! I’m in here! Are you lazy asses up yet????”
That’s when I walk into your room and you explode into a spastic arm flailing cacophony of happiness, accompanied by shrieks of sheer joy, sunshine, angels, glitter and manly unicorns. At that moment your room morphs into a land where Cheetos are calorie free and workouts feel like full body massages.
All because I walked into the room.
Rush Limbaugh would likely get the same reaction, but for the moment let’s pretend it’s just me.
I actually try to beat your father into your room in the morning so I get the reaction instead of him. He’s already on to me. We may have to start busting out some serious ROCKPAPERSCISSORS shit soon.
And that right there is worth every destroyed piece of anything that you’ve come across to date.
What I’m trying to say is that mornings don’t suck for me anymore. To be clear, you’re a GD joy to be around, and so far you’ve evaded any real chronic asshole-ish tendencies.
Rush Limbaugh’s another story.
Thank you for that, kid, and keep it coming.
Love,
Momma
