Dear Andy,

Eight months tomorrow! Since I last wrote you at six months, you've learned to do a lot of things. I'm pleased to announce that you have finally grasped the concept of eating from a spoon. Still not your favorite thing to do- just wait until you taste something cheesy, my son, just wait- but you finally understand the concept. Drinking from a cup will be your next skill to master, although after witnessing you, on Saturday, purposefully spill water from your sippy cup into a puddle on your highchair tray and then proceed to lap it up like the world's cutest little puppy- well, let's just say I feel like mastering the cup may take you just as long as mastering the spoon. Oh, dear!

Just this week you started to army crawl. It's not quite a proper crawl since you're basically just dragging your fat little tummy and chunky little legs behind you as you pull yourself forward, but you've started to move- and you're fast. If I had to lay on the floor, tummy flush with the carpet, and pull myself forward using only my arms, I would be significantly slower than you are. I'd probably just fall asleep in that same position, to be honest with you. Somehow, though, it works for you. You're all over the place now, and I'm starting to realize that I need to make baby proofing a major priority. I keep telling you not to put the lamp cords in your mouth, but you don't seem to understand what I'm saying. And you're already accumulating bruises from crawling into the wall, the toilet base, the door, the book shelf, etc. If DCFS got a good look at you- well, I suppose that this happens to every little guy newly on the move. Right? Wouldn't you think?

When I picked up up at day care yesterday, you yelled at me in delight from your position on the floor as you caught sight of me walking in. Your recognition and love for me grows every day, and, selfishly, that is my favorite part of being a mom so far. That's normal, right- to cherish feeling cherished? When I bent down by you just out of reach, you catapulted yourself forward, grabbed my arms, and pulled yourself, swiftly, as close to me as you could. And it was heaven, my little boy and I reunited after nine long hours of being apart. You and I, we were equal amounts relieved and joyous. You and I, we're the best of buddies. I know one day when you are old and I am old, I'm not going to mean nearly as much to you. I may mean next to nothing. But for now, I am your hero and the anchor to your world, and I love it and will do everything I can to keep you safe, secure, happy, treasured.

Okay, enough of that. Here's some stuff I need you to work on:

1) Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma instead of da-da-da-da-da. I mean, really? After all we've been through?

2) Whenever I put you in your exersaucer, you take a dump. That thing is not your toilet. Stop pooping every time you stand in that thing.

3) Get some teeth already. This is nuts. Aren't you supposed to have teeth by now?

4) Please don't wake up any earlier than six a.m. You're actually pretty good about this- today you didn't wake up until almost seven!- but this is just a friendly reminder so that you keep at it.

5) Stop grabbing your balls when I change your diaper.

6) Slow down with the growing up, just a little. I want to hold you like a baby for as long as I can, and I fear that these days will be gone before I know it. Oh little guy. Little itty bitty guy. You get bigger by the day, and I need to keep you small for as long as I'm allowed.