Dear Kid: Month 11

Dear Kid,

A few weeks ago you turned 11 months old. This means that, to date, we’ve managed to keep you alive for 355 days. Wow. We’re in the home stretch, little buddy.

I remember when we first brought you home, and you were so miniature and squishy and eye googly and alienish I thought 11 months seemed like a million years away.

You with mor mor right out of the vag.
Miniature.  Squishy.

I thought GOOD GOD how will we ever make it that long, you and I? But here you are, making me laugh and cry and smile and exercise my cat like reflexes as you happily work your way through our living room – a space you’ve decided to adopt as a battleground for destruction and mayhem.

The good news? Though you typically exist in world where chairs should not be in their upright position, fistfuls of dog hair are the norm, and plastic clothes hangers are man’s greatest invention, you’re still my favorite thing I’ve ever made. Unfortunately I’m not too crafty so it could only go uphill, but I’m still super proud. And I hesitate to say this because I know there are parents out there who are facing horrifically challenging situations with their children and babies – none of which I have had to face with you – but keeping you alive and healthy and happy for nearly one year is the greatest accomplishment of my life to date.

You've had a busy month.  For example, you're already getting visitors from out of state.  Your general manager from Seattle came to visit:

Ermargerd. you love her so much.

You've cut a bunch of teeth, you dance, you're saying momma and dadda and nigh-nigh.  You're basically a genius.  You know, the yoush.

In fact, since we’ll be a month late getting you to your one year appointment because your father and I will be in Mexico your doctor is on maternity leave, let us share some basic stats about your growth progress with the internet:

Height: Just tall enough to now reach the top drawer of your changing table to take out all of the things.

Weight: 3 tons, though you do not physically look as heavy as you are. You’re like a walking ball of mercury. Someone might see you and be like, “Well hey there little buddy! How’s about I pick you up?” and then they throw out their back.

Head: Huge. Wide. It has sanctioned its own weather system.

Smile: huge-er.

Hair: OUTOF#@CKINGCONTROL. I actually think your hair mass makes up 2/3 of your weight.

Vocal skills: LOUD. Loud loud. This is you being LOUD. I don’t know what you’re saying all the time but in my head and I think you’re thinking that you’re saying “THIS IS ME BEING LOUD! I'M THE LOUDEST! LOUD LOUD LOUD LOUD LOUD!!!!”

To date, your favorite toys are as follows:
1.) old tupperware
2.) my keys
3.) clothes hangers
4.) a milk carton - extra fancy because we filled it with rice.

no time to pose mom.  must. clank. tupperware.

don't say we never gave you nice things.

The main thing we’re now seeing is that when we try to take anything away from you, you do not hesitate to express your disappointment. This is annoying.

Even when you sense the threat of something being taken away, you’ll openly express this intuition. For example, when you are holding my keys as we walk from the car to the front door, you’ve begun to remember that I need said keys in order to open the door. This scenario typically results in a six second temper tantrum that has now made our weird neighbor believe you have tourettes.

But it’s really the only sensible excuse I could give him.

Your favorite activity is taking all of the diapers out of the decorative basket that I hold the diapers in your room. You engage in this activity with such abandon that you actually breathe heavily while aggressively grabbing the diapers from their proper receptacle and tossing them over your shoulders without any regard to where they land. When I put them back in the basket where they belong you look at me like I’ve just told you that I’m the athletic one in the family. Confusion. Disbelief. Terror of what’s to come by the fate you’ve been handed as you look at my missing knuckle, my two left feet, and the theater award that I keep next to your father’s all conference football recognition.


You now have five teeth and another on the way. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the total surface area of those five teeth rivals the total surface area of Delaware. I have huge teeth. Your father has huge teeth. You will not be for lack of teeth.

You will be walking very soon. You take steps from the coffee table to the couch without any consideration for safety. Once you slam in to the couch, come to, and begin your recovery process from whiplash, you realize what you’ve done and turn to us with a nervous laugh. A laugh I am confident your father and I will give one another at various milestones throughout the course of your life. Like when you ask how you came to be (delivered in the night by a magical fairy dressed in a miami vice costume, obvs).  Or if we ever had a fake ID (I'll let your father take that one.  According to the only photos I can find of his college years, he spent the majority of his formative years combing a tongan mullet, playing football, rollerblading and attending mormon dances.) 

Because listen kid, to be straight with you, we still don’t know what the hell we’re doing. But we’re thanking the good Lord that we’ve made it this far and we’ll have you know that we intend to keep you alive for the rest of your life.

And as we near this final stretch to the anniversary of your birthday, as we near this final countdown, I can’t help but look back at pictures of you and think how lucky I am that you were a healthy, happy baby; how fortunate your father and I are to have you in our lives; how much joy you’ve brought to so many around you. And already I’m unabashedly proud of the self-destructive, smiling little human you’ve become.

hair. out. of. con.trol!

Thanks for that, kid.



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