Meet me at "That's Not Food!"

Dear Andy,

Here you are at 14 1/2 months. This time last year, I was preparing to go back to work after our glorious maternity leave together. Hard to believe how fast time has gone by. When I left you last year for work, you barely acknowledged me- you were hardly aware that I was leaving the room, much less the house, much less the county. Now, you know. And our mornings are hectic and terrible and wonderful because you cling to me like a monkey child and bury your head in my chest and link your arm through mine, and if you could properly talk, I know you'd beg me to stay and try to bribe me with some of your Sesame Street crackers. When I leave you and Daddy behind in the bedroom in the morning, closing the door behind me on my way downstairs and out of the house, you bang and bang on the door with your sweet little fists, crying out after me. When you say Mama, it sounds a little like Emma. So, I guess I am only assuming in the mornings that you are yearning for me, Mama, and not for some cute little girl you met named Emma.

But then we have the afternoons, when I walk into day care, and it can be the brightest spot in my day. You run up to me and give me a big hug and snuggle up against me while we walk out to the car. And it makes me feel finally alive again, after so many hours of missing you.

Funny story- The other day, a little girl ran up to me at day care and reached me before you did. She reached for me, arms up and extended, and you didn't seem to like that one bit. My mama, I could almost hear you say. You elbowed her aside, shoved her back, and assumed your spot before me, reaching up for what you knew was yours. And even though that little girl was visibly upset at being shoved by Andy B., I couldn't help but giggle a little.

Oh man, I've created a Mama's Boy Monster. But, it's all good. I will take it while I can, because the growing goes too fast.

Here are a couple snapshots from recently:

Superman pajamas. I put you to bed in them whenever I can, and then the next morning, after breakfast, I get to watch Superman running around my kitchen in a blur. Clark Kent: The Early Years.

Books. Finally, you like reading! You hand me your cardboard books, settle in on my lap, and we can get through a whole story together. Love it. It is very important to me to raise a reader- I hope you continue to like reading together as much as I do.

Dogs. I think I've mentioned how much you like dogs. Oh man, do you like dogs. You love Cali, the neighbor's dog the best. She's big and golden and soft and sweet, and you let her put her tongue in your mouth sometimes. I'm definitely not okay with that, but at the same time, I kind of just let it happen. You say "Dah" when you see a dog.

Balloons. You might like balloons even more than you like dogs.

Baths. Oh, yes, you definitely like baths. Possibly even more than balloons and dogs. The other night, you stood by the stairs and pointed up, so I picked you up and let you crawl up the flight (you're very good at doing that now), and when you got to the landing, you stood up, resumed pointing, and toddled right into the bathroom, where you tried to use the step stool to hoist yourself straight into the tub. When you hear the water running, you go nuts. I have to restrain you. You love tub time, and there's always a few tears when tub time is over.

Smarts. Your memory is pretty damn incredible, and if I hide something, you don't forget where I've stashed it. If I change something in the house (bought a new ottoman last week), you inspect the change immediately (hey, this ottoman wasn't here before!). Also, brought you across the street to the neighbor's house, and they have the same model as us. In the kitchen, you looked around and then walked straight to the cabinet that would have been the same cabinet in our house where I keep the tupperware for you to play with. I thought that was amazing, that you could look at a similiar but different setting and deduce where you might find something. There was not any tupperware in that particular cabinet, though, so I guess you weren't THAT amazing...

Clapping. Since Daddy and I clap every time you do something good, now sometimes when you do something you think is correct, you look at us and cautiously start clapping on your own. Adorable, Andy.

I love you. I love you so much that my heart feels like it's going to explode sometimes with all the love.

Well, we got through Andy's party, just barely. It was literally the hottest day of the summer so far, with triple digit temps, so our idea of a laid-back, outdoor gathering kind of sizzled. But, we did the best we could. We kept the beef and pasta salad sitting out in the sun; I'm not sure how food poisoning works, but if you ended up getting violently ill that night, whoops.

Andy made out. Toys, clothes, cash, and all the attention one little boy could ever hope for. I'm becoming concerned that perhaps he will become spoiled. He already freaks out if you try to take something away from him. He loves cups, even if they're empty (but he prefers when they're full of water so he can dip his dirty fist into it, drop the remote control into it, or attempt to drink a few huge sips only to spill water freaking everywhere), and if I try to take a cup away from him, it's like a major child abuse situation. He screams, pulls the cup away, shakes his head no, cries, and basically just loses it. That's just one example. He also goes bananas if he is stopped while trying to twist the stove knob or when he is about to dive head-first in the bath, or if he is trying to grab scissors, knives, lighters, etc. Basically, he becomes very pissed off very quickly when I try to save his life. He wants what he wants and he loses his shit if I say no.

I hope this is normal for a one year old.

Anyway, I told myself I would open one toy at a time for him over a span of about a year or so but of course, by the end of that week, every toy was opened and now our house looks even more like it belongs to Andy and like Chris and I just rent from him. If only that were actually the case; how awesome would it be if Andy had to pay the mortgage?? If he were actually paying the bills, it might be more acceptable that our house looks like a cross between a disorganized toy store and a restaurant about half a point away from being shut down by the board of health. Because there's of course the toys (including 250 Mega Bloks) and there's the fact that I let Andy take his snacks on the go, so there's crushed Cheerios everywhere, little puddles of milk, and then under the high chair, it was Ant City population Lots of Ants until I realized that if Andy drops a banana sliver on the floor I HAVE TO PICK THAT BANANA SLIVER UP RIGHT AWAY.

My housekeeping skills just aren't up to the level they need to be with a one year old in the house. How do other moms do it? Of course, the only other moms I know who do it well have a dog around to lick up all the dropped food, but I know that if I get a dog, the house is becoming a cross between sloppy toy store, unhealthy restaurant, and disgusting pet store. Forget it.

Anyway, so we had a first birthday, a first birthday party, have played with a crapload of toys, and have wondered if Andy is becoming spoiled. What a couple of weeks we've had! No- what a year we've had. So funny to think that it's been a full year already- that my sweet little immobile nugget is now a toddler. God, it goes by fast. Better start planning the 2nd birthday party now, I suppose.

Well, here we are, one week before Andy turns... one. One. The big Oh-One. Man, I can't believe it. A year already. Sheesh.

Andy, at one year minus week, you are very very very close to walking. You push your little walker around like a pro and glide from coffee table to couch to shelf to wall like a pro. I'm convinced that the only element of mastering walking that you lack is confidence. Every once in a while, you pull a Wile E. Coyote on me and let go of the coffee table while inspecting the remote control or nail clippers with both hands (I hope we're not the only family that keeps the baby nail clippers on the living room coffee table for convenience) and just stand there. Then, when you look down and realize you're not holding onto the coffee table and are just free-standing it, you drop onto your butt with a resounding THUD. You can do it, Andy. You've got seven days to learn.

Yesterday, I got my first Honest To God For Absolutely Real "mama" out of you. You were doing something out of my sight (whoops) when suddenly you started crying a little and turned the corner to come see me in the kitchen. You crawled over to me, leaned back on your knees, threw up your arms, looked me straight in the eye, and clear as a bell wailed "Mama!" I wasn't even going to pick you up- I was busy with something and was just going to let you cry it out a little. But after that? After getting a genuine "mama" in your sweet little voice? Yep, I hefted you up, held you close, and I have to admit, I kind of felt a little ver klempt over the whole thing.

You're eating pretty good. Not great, and the amount of mess you generate from eating 1/4th of a banana, 1/2 a slice of cheese, and two chopped up chicken nuggets is, like, completely unbelievable. Feeding you is ridiculous. I know you're eating, because you're fat, but man, it seems like there's more food left over afterwards than what we started out with. Meals with you are just something else. It's probably the worst part of our time together, because clean-up afterwards takes about four times longer than the actual eating part. I haul you off into the bathroom, turn on the faucet, and basically just stick you under it. And then when I try to sweep up all of your crumbs and what-not, that's when you're suddenly interested in eating. A pile of dirt with a couple cheerios and banana pieces in it is apparently a highly appetizing and composed meal to you.

We play a lot of "games" together, and it seems like every couple days or so, you're ready to throw a new game into the mix. Here's the games we play pretty regularly.

Indian Poker. We lick cards and paste them to our foreheads and then giggle and peel them off. You also enjoy poker chips, and you carry them around the house and seemingly give them to the plant upstairs.

Stack 'em, Knock 'em. I stack blocks, you knock them down. This is the one way I can get you to crawl back into the family room if you've wandered off. You see me start to stack, and you take off towards that block tower like a typhoon. With one might swipe, the blocks come crashing down, and boy do you love that. So far, you're not so interested in stacking, but you LOVE to knock them.

Echo Bucket. I hold a bucket to my mouth and make a noise into it (ahhh, eeeeh), and then hand the bucket to you. You hold it to your mouth and imitate the noise. We can do this all day.

Catch. You're actually pretty good at this. We can roll your ball back and forth for quite a while before you lose interest. I love that you get the concept of playing catch. It's really something else.

Hide and Seek. I run and crouch down around the corner. You come crawling after and when you find me, I yell "Boo!" Giggles, and repeat.

Let's see, you also like to dance. When you hear music, you sway your butt back and forth and tap your little foot. Oh, and speaking of your foot, it smells. You're such a little boy- you already have stinky feet. It's those cheap plastic sandals that we got you from Wal-Mart ($4!) so it's not like your feet are *naturally* stinky (I don't think), but when I slide those sandals off your feet after day care- OH MAN! It's seriously the best part of my day. I DIDN'T KNOW A BABY FOOT COULD GET THAT SWEATY AND STINKY!

I don't know, it's just unreal to me that you're turning one already. I take you out in the stroller after dinner around the neighborhood, and we take the same route I took a couple days before you were born, when I was walking like a maniac trying to get the show on the road. And that seems like it was last week. And now we take the same walk together, you sitting up in the stroller, wearing your red sunglasses, gripping the tray, wagging your stinky feet, pointing at houses, and staring curiously at dogs and kids. Seriously, it's amazing. You're amazing. And you're about to go from being my baby to being my toddler, when last year at this time, you were an unknown being pushing ominously against my belly.

Wow.

Andy's been bumping his head into a lot of things lately, and on Sunday, he cracked his forehead pretty good against the corner of my desk. Starting to get concerned about brain damage, like any good, non-neurotic mother would, I carried him into the bathroom and got out the First Aid kit. I put two triple A batteries into the pen shaped flashlight, shone the light into his eyes, and looked for.... I realized I didn't know what I was looking for, just that I had seen doctors and paramedics do that before (on TV, of course) when severe brain trauma was suspected. I shone the light in first his right, then his left eye, then waved the light back and forth between the two, first quickly, then slowly, then to the rhythm of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." I could determine nothing further other than the fact that Andy was extremely irritated at me for trying a burn a hole through his retinas with a light beam.

It occurred to me, as I gave up and tossed the pen light into the bathroom junk drawer, that perhaps I may have been using it properly after all. "If victim gets mad at you during use, his brain is most likely okay."

My first Mother's Day is rapidly approaching, and I'm so excited I could freaking burst. Chris, you'd better not forget what Sunday is. You'd better bring me the Egg McMuffin in bed that I've already requested and perhaps plan a whole bunch of other things celebrating how amazing of a mother I am, since Andy is incapable of formulating his feelings or a comprehensive plan that includes taking me to my favorite place (The Patio) and presenting me with a gift basket filled with a bag of my favorite nuts (pistachios).

I couldn't have done it without you, Andrew... that will be the first line of my acceptance speech come this Mother's Weekend (see how I already stretched it from a day to a full weekend?) as I receive the plaque declaring it is I who have won the coveted Mother Of The Planet award... anyway.

So, my dear Andy, I wanted to share something with you today. You've been rocking out the finger food lately (day care has started giving you a "real people food" lunch each day that I find increasingly hilarious given the fact that you're still, in fact, a baby: chicken nuggets and corn, ravioli and peaches, ham and cheese sandwich, the uber-mysterious riblet, fish sticks and cheese.) At home, I am much less adventurous with my offerings. I feed you mostly cereal pieces, shredded cheese, and bananas in addition to the panic-room amount of baby food purees I have on hand. Which brings me to what I wanted to share with you.

Every time I see you eat the cereal, I get a little choked up. It reminds me of something which in turn reminds me of something else. The former is a girl in my first grade class who brought dry cereal to school in a baggy for lunch. She was the new girl, and her family had just moved to Midlothian, Illinois, USA from... somewhere. Poland, I want to say. She did not seem to know any English, and she was always alone. None of the other kids (myself included) talked to her or played with her. And, during lunch, she used to eat her cereal and sob. I was six, and I thought maybe she was crying because she had to eat Cheerios for lunch- without milk- while the rest of us had sandwiches and chips. And, then, after a while, I got it. She was sad. She was alone, she was a little girl, and she was just plain sad. She probably hated it there in Midlothian, Illinois, USA, probably missed her friends, probably hated that she couldn't talk to anyone... the cereal had nothing to do with it, but now whenever I see anyone eating dry cereal- you included, Andy- that's what I think of. Her.

And whenever I think of her, I think of my dad. They are one and the same in the dry cereal neuron spark, and that's because I know my dad- your grandpa- was once some version of that little girl. A six year old from Italy in Blue Island, Illinois, USA who didn't know a word of English and endured that same sad hell as my first grade classmate. Only it was worse, probably because while a little girl immigrant is just someone to ignore, a little boy immigrant incites a sort of bullyish rage among the other kids. My dad got pushed around quite a bit as the little Italian kid. And perhaps this story strikes me, at times, as a bit too convenient of an ending, but my dad states that the first sentence of English he understood was one of the boys saying, "Just leave him alone," while the other kids picked on him, shoved him around. So there was one good apple in the bunch- but, regardless, it makes me a little teary-eyed to imagine my dad being the new, strange kid without any friends- regardless of whether or not my grandmother sent him to school with a baggy of dry cereal.

And that's what I think of when I see you palm your cereal and carefully move the pieces from your high chair tray into your sweet little mouth. How painful it can be to be a small kid, sometimes. How our parents move to new countries or something less drastic but equally dramatic that make us into those children who cry at their desk or get picked on by the boys. But how it all ends up okay, too. Grandpa is fine. He's a good man with a family and friends. And I'm sure dry cereal girl is fine, too. She's probably married with a family and a good career and has had a great life that got increasingly better after the end of first grade. In fact, I probably remember her dried cereal bags more than she does.

Dear Andy,

I'm a day late with this nine month letter, but, as you know, life is pretty busy. You are into EVERYTHING these days, and I can barely keep up with you! I'm not complaining, of course, but I'm finding it hard to remember the days when I used to get home from work and just lay on the couch, for hours, not moving except to fill my wine glass. I won't say those were the days, because, truly, THESE are the days, but I will say that the time I have to relax is about fifteen minutes each day right before bed, and I don't know if I truly appreciated all that me- time back when I had it in spades.

Wow, sounds a little like I'm whining, huh? Let's move on to the part where mommy doesn't lay the guilt trip on her precious little monster. In the past week or two, you've become a little person. Suddenly, you are eating with gusto, picking up puffed rice and yogurt melts and (inexpertly) popping them into your mouth with a clumsy sort of confidence. All this worrying about your lack of interest in solid foods, and here you are, feeding yourself out of nowhere. I'm not entirely sure what other foods to move onto besides the cereal pieces and yogurt melts- Prime rib and an au gratin potato dish? Taffy apples?- but I suppose we can figure that out together. Eating just became fun! And messy. Messier.

We took your first trip to the park last weekend when the weather was nice, and I'm not going to say you loved it, because you didn't. It's not like you obviously hated it or anything, but you definitely had a "take it or leave it" look on your face the whole time we were there. I see you already becoming your father's son. "Can we just go home and play on the computer? Outside sucks."

Hmm, what else aside from your everyday awesomeness? Oh, we had pink eye last week. What fun! You brought it home from day care, and, sure enough, my eyes started oozing within the day. Your father's eyes were fine. At least I got a little time off work because of it- basically made the horrible, itchy, goopiness worth it. Sick day! Woot!

I'm having a hard time believing you are nine months already, nearly a year old. Babies grow much too quickly. The nice thing is that you are becoming even cuddlier as you get bigger. I know at some point the cuddliness will level off and then completely plummet, but for now I am enjoying this upward trend, the way your soft, fat arms curl around my shoulders and how you burrow your sweet little face next to my neck. It is joy, my dear Andy. Pure, amazing, incredible joy.

For your nine month birthday, yesterday, your father and I bought you a car. A used little red radio flyer vehicle that you can push around the driveway and patio this summer when you're a little bigger. We bought you the car, but, Andy, the insurance is your responsibility.

Xo.

We've been tracking our expenses through Mint.com. The good thing about Mint.com is that you can tie in all of your different accounts and use budgeting tools to figure out where all of your money goes. The bad thing is that you can tie in all of your different accounts and use budgeting tools to figure out where all of your money goes. They say ignorance is bliss, and "they" sure got that right. Damn they. Damn all of they. I think "they" also said "easy come, easy go," and that's another reason why I don't even want to talk to they anymore. They're too spot-on.

So, money is flowing out faster than it's coming in. We've been close to breaking even each month, but there's always something that tips the scales so that the expenses outpace the income. New glasses, baby car seats, new tires, foot surgery bill, license plate renewal, twenty-six dollars to make five servings of homemade pesto. Gasoline is once again ridiculous, and the baby needs a whole crapload of things. Food. Cell phones. Cable. Nicor, ComEd, Lake County Sanitation (I don't know what they do, but I send them thirty dollars each month and never feel more sanitized having done that). Car payments. Literally, the list goes on and on. And, don't get me wrong, in theory, things should eventually get better. The property tax bill will be slightly less this year, making my mortgage payment slightly less. I just got a (small) raise. Day care will go down in October. Chris' car is almost paid off. We're entering what I like to call Awesome Utility Season because between now and mid-to-late June, the Nicor and ComEd bills both go down. Although I guess I shouldn't say ComEd since I switched to Blue Star Energy in a bid to save four extra bucks per month. So, there. In your face. Which leads me to the point of this entry. How to save more money. Here is the list of options I've been putting together. I'm sure you'll find this list both compelling and... whatever.

1) Walk to work. How long do you think it would take to walk twenty miles? Uphill and in the snow?
2) Eat considerably less.
3) Make my own baby food- out of ramen noodles. Use only half of the spice packet to control baby's salt intake.
4) Unplug all appliances when not in use. Unplug certain appliances when they *are* in use.
5) Lamps and light fixtures that use more than one light bulb, take out half of the light bulbs. A dim bathroom can be considered romantic, yes?
6) Substitute a costly habit (drinking wine) for a free habit (sleeping or sitting still).
7) Switch to cloth diapers. No, that's just gross.
8) Get rid of data package on cell phone. Kind of serious about this one. I mean HOW connected do I really need to be? It's ridiculous that I even have this data package. Although I'm sure my "contract" will screw me over on this one, too....
9) No fast food. Chris, I'm looking at you. I mean look up from your computer screen. I'm. Looking. At. You.
10) Stop paying my mortgage, live free for two years or until the bank gets around to kicking me out, then deal with being homeless when the time comes.

All solid ideas, right? Sigh. It's insane how two people can have decent jobs, a modest home and modest cars, be conscientious when shopping and STILL not be able to fully make ends meet. Maybe insane isn't the right word. But the only other word I can think of is bananas, and that's somehow not right either.

Naming a baby is a funny thing. It's almost nine months later, and sometimes I look at Andy and wondered if we gave him the right name. Perhaps Andrew isn't the name that will best suit this person as he grows into himself. I suppose we name our children the names we want them to become. To me, Andy is a nice, friendly, regular kind of guy. Down to earth, not at all metro-sexual. The proper name of Andrew rings of high ACT scores and a respect for others. It's possible, though, despite my best intentions, Andy/ Andrew won't be either of these people. As a baby, he is finicky about having his outfit changed and likes to sleep between his parents with one hand on each of them. He looks sweetly hilarious in red socks. In these regards, he may have been better-named as a Simon or Henry. Other times, he is rambunctious and wild, and he pulls hair strands and cabinet handles professionally and swiftly, with a grip like a vise. He should be a Josh, I think. Or perhaps Sport. Did we screw up when we named him? Did we do it incorrectly? I am constantly forgetting his middle name, Jacob, and that part, to me, doesn't seem right at all. Jacob. Andrew Jacob. Really? Did we really just halfheartedly toss a Jacob in there? It doesn't always fit when I say it out loud. But at least we had the good sense not to try and be clever with his name. We stuck to real, solid names. People who make up baby names very rarely get it right at all. At least we'll hopefully come close.

Gail's having a baby, and her shower is in the next couple weeks. I decided to check out her registry and went to the Babies R Us website to find it. I was unprepared for the emotions that overwhelmed me as I scrolled through her list. Seeing the familiar page design, the items that we throw on there for our unborn children, the things we pick out for someone who doesn't quite exist yet- it's all very powerful stuff. And, for a minute, I felt pregnant again, sitting at work, rubbing my belly, and wondering if Baby Boy was going to need bottle liners or not. I missed it, for a second, and felt sad that I wasn't pregnant anymore. And for those of you who remember,I f-ing LOATHED being pregnant. It was downright awful, all that anxiety that comes with the unknown. But, I think, second time around, I may just enjoy it. I can't wait for a second time around. Partly because I already have all the stuff and won't need to register again.

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.

Chris and I were discussing Andy's lack of interest in eating solids:

Jackie: Well, I guess I shouldn't worry. He'll eat solids *eventually.*

Chris: Yeah, I learned how to do it.

Jackie: Good thing, too. I wouldn't want to drive you to your mom's house for breast-feeding every time you needed a meal.

Chris: Don't be ridiculous. I'd be on formula by now.

Dear Andy,

Today is your half birthday! You are 0.5 year old! I hope it's a great day for you and that those other asshole babies at the daycare let you use the jumperoo all you want. You deserve it!

It's been a whirlwind six months for you. Ah, how far you've come. You are sitting, rolling, playing, moving, giggling, babbling. You raise your arms for uppies. You curl up on your side for sleeping. You scratch your balls while in the bath. You're basically just a man, now, only tiny. You wear sweatpants all the time and have figured out how to put the TV on sleep mode using the remote control. I still haven't figured out how to turn off the sleep mode and usually just have to wait until the TV powers down. You are smarter than me already! Kinda.

The one thing you don't do all that well is eat. You don't seem to like the spoon, you haven't mastered swallowing yet, and the taste of bananas on your tongue? Well, it makes you cry. I know you're young and it's not a big deal yet if you're not into the whole solids thing, but I guess I'm just ... I don't know, worried isn't the right word. Neither is concerned. Just interested, I suppose, and perhaps wondering if I will still be feeding you with bottles when you're five. Nah, that probably won't happen. I'm sure we're good.

These six months have been downright super. Everything about you makes me smile, from the hilarious back of your head (swirl of hair, little rat tail, and long wings of hair swooping out from behind your eyes) to the way your eyes light up and you laugh when we do eskimo kisses- the amount of happiness is so great, I can hardly bear it.

And I know these next six months are going to be incredible. You are going to learn SO much in such a short period of time- I just hope that I am able to take it all in and completely relish it. I don't want to miss or forget a thing. I can't wait to hear you say "Mommy." That had better be your first word; if it's "Day Care Provider," I may just lose it.

Here's to an awesome six months and an amazingly even better next six months. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!

Xoxoxo
Mommy

Inspired by this post, I wanted to write down my wish for Andy in the new year. I only have one. Well, I guess it's three since there are commas and an "and," but it's all one sentiment. I wish for Andy to be healthy, safe, and happy. That's it. Also, an early interest in potty training would be nice. Or at least less blowouts where the poop goes up out of the diaper and reaches his neck. Yes, that would be nice, would be very nice.

Andy's first Christmas was a success! He thoroughly enjoyed tasting every last piece of wrapping paper and ribbon (note to self: check to make sure the ink on wrapping paper isn't lead-based), and little dude made out pretty good on toys and clothes. Looking around the house at the amount of large toys that he has, I'm starting to wonder what the heck I'm going to do with them once he outgrows them. I don't want to give them away quite yet, because hopefully there will be a sibling in the future who will enjoy them, but we have virtually no storage in our home. So, I may have to apply some creativity to reuse these items in the interim. A couple ideas:

• Changing table, while not exactly a toy, will make a nice dry bar after thoroughly cleaned and disinfected.


• Baby swing might make an entertaining shampoo caddy for the bathroom.


• Stand and play sounds and light table could be repurposed for an adult drinking game, somehow.


• Exersaucer can clearly double as a turkey defroster of sorts.


• Teddy bears could be put into decorative pillow cases as irregular-shaped pillow stuffing.


• Tummy time mat? Super bright and fun yoga/ pilates mat.

Guess I'll need to take up yoga and turkey defrosting at some point in order for these ideas to work. Although somehow the zen of yoga and the sloth of devouring a full-sized turkey seem like an odd combination.

Christmas Day turned out nicely, although my mother didn't come because she had that awful stomach flu everyone is getting. She almost got hit by a car that day, too, but I didn't learn that until yesterday when she so politically correctly announced that an A-rab almost ran her down at Walgreens. Those damn terrorists! Anyway, we had plenty of food, dinner went off without a hitch, everyone got plenty of cuddle time with Andy, and an overall pleasant time was had by all. Starting at noon was a brilliant ploy on my part- guests were gone by six, house was clean by seven, and I was asleep by about ten after a little Super Mario time. Sidenote: Yesterday, I perfected the art of playing Wii while holding a sleeping baby. Man, this baby stuff is easy!

And I'm good at it. I keep my baby safe, healthy, and happy. As evidenced by this Christmas gem. The first picture of my baby that I've posted on this blog, and possibly the last since I fear predators coming in the night and stealing him:

Merry Christmas, yo! It's Andy's first Christmas, which sounds a lot more exciting than it will actually be. Little guy's way too young to comprehend what's going on, so I think next Christmas will REALLY be special. This year, it will just be special in the fact that we HAVE him, that he's here at all, and that he's so damn cute and cuddly. To think he was the size of a plum last year. To think he was in my belly. The difference a year can make- it's incredible!

Off to Chris' extended family celebration tonight, which I anticipate will make for a cranky Andy since the party starts a little too close to bedtime. And then, tomorrow, we're hosting both sides of our family, festivities beginning at a sprightly noon in order to get things going and over with by a reasonable hour. I hate when holiday parties start late, I really do. Holiday meals are meant to be eaten EARLY, leaving the rest of the day for digestion and rest. Anyway, God help me tomorrow. Not sure why I thought hosting would be a good idea- this has potential to be a disaster to rival the Edmund Fitzgerald, have you met my mother??- but, hey. No driving for us. No wearing shoes. And isn't that the true meaning of the holiday?

I had the stomach flu on Tuesday, which was super awesome in that "Wow, I forgot what it's like to throw up in the shower" kind of way. Chris decided to stay home as well, and we kept Andy home with us from day care since the little guy's been fighting something all week. I think Andy's needs were met only on a minimal basis that Tuesday. I was in no physical shape to care for a baby, and Chris started feeling something too around mid-morning. Not pity or empathy or anything but something rather bowel-ish. That being said, I spent all of Wednesday feeling guilty for my lack of mothering, and now it's Thursday and I've just today come to the conclusion that maybe Andy should go see a doctor since his cough progressed from dry and cute to wet and gross sometime around last Sunday. Sigh.

I think little Andy knew Mama was sick on Tuesday. Chris would carry him into the bedroom, and Andy would stare down at me with what seemed like a rather forlorn look. He could tell something was wrong, and those forlorn little looks just about broke me. Man, sometimes it's really heart-wrenching to be a parent.

Chris and I have our eight year date-iversary coming up in a few days. Ah, I was a young, sassy thing of 22 when we first met. Now look at me: thirty, stretch marks, and the most interesting thing I talk about has to do with how many wipes I use while changing a diaper (anywhere from zero to seventeen. Fascinating stuff!).

Chris hasn't changed all that much. Still likes meat and cheese sticks, Southern Comfort, and Strong Bad emails. Still rotating through about 85% of his 2002 wardrobe. Still listening to the same music and quoting the same TV shows. Makes him sound kind of dull, but a resistance to change can be a very appealing thing in a life partner. Maybe resistance isn't the right word. Just a "Why fix what isn't broken?" kind of mentality. I did talk him into THE biggest change, having a baby, so at least he welcomes some change with open arms. Although, let's face it, if he'd have had to carry and birth that kid, we might be singing a different tune over here.

Me, I don't fit into any of my 2002 clothes, much less have I actually retained any of my 2002 clothes. My body has irrevocably changed after child birth- my pants size has ballooned from a two to a four, and my ribs are NOT THE SAME. They jut out all funny now, which I'm assuming is normal. I don't drink nearly as much alcohol as I used to- hardly any, really- because I feel like the responsible thing to do around a baby is stay sober. Other than that, I don't know. Am I the same? Essentially? Or am I different? I guess I'll have to ask Chris, who will likely make some wise crack that will have me regretting that I even bothered.

I think Chris and I have a great relationship. We match each other, we're not afraid of each other, and we're loyal to one another. And I joke that even if, one day, we woke up just utterly and completely SICK of each other, we'd probably stay together anyway. There's a lot of paperwork involved in divorce. Attorneys, notary publics, financial issues, custody arrangements. And, really, who has the energy for all that? Not us. Yep, kind of lazy. But still in love.

I'm thinking alot about my aunt Sandi lately, probably because Christmas is coming up, and this will be the first Christmas since she's died. Also, my cousin, her daughter, is due with her second child in about a month, right around my aunt's birthday. At times, I feel so sad for my aunt, that she's going to be missing Christmas and missing her grand-daughter's birth. But then I have to remind myself that she chose to miss these events. That she knew all of this, along with the rest of life, was coming up when she pulled the trigger.

And it wasn't something that she did on a whim, either. She was planning it, as evidenced by some eerie remarks on my baby shower DVD. It was foreshadowing to the max, and nobody caught it until she was gone. Of course, you can't walk around trying to decipher whether or not the random comments people make are preambles to their suicide. People say goofy things all the time. What, we're supposed to all be word detectives in our daily interactions, trying to sniff out clues and prevent pre-planned tragedies? I mean, okay, yes, you're right, to a certain extent that IS what we're supposed to do. But- well, sometimes, sadly, hindsight is twenty-twenty.

I'll tell you something, speaking of words and things people say. Aunt Sandi, you have totally ruined the whole shooting myself joke. The one that starts with an inconsequential comment such as, "Aw, man, we're out of cookies?" and ends with the pantomime of putting a gun to my head. Not funny anymore. Doesn't work.

Dear Aunt Sandi- Sometimes, I will suddenly think of you in a moment where you don't belong. I will be washing dishes or putting groceries in a cart or watching a movie, and you will appear to me. And it takes a second to remember that you're gone, and that I'm not going to see you again. You were a good aunt to me, and when I think of you, I remember the dog scissors. The shopping spree that you took me and Lisa on before school one year. You bought us tons of crazy stuff, and Lisa and I got matching dog scissors, the handles being two halves of a peculiar looking dog. In order to cut paper, the dog halves would have to separate and rejoin, separate and rejoin. The dog scissors were, singlehandedly, the most macabre school supply I've ever owned, and I had those dog scissors through early grade school well past college. I assume that they are still floating around my parents' house somewhere. Those dog scissors always made me think of you and Lisa and the great fun we had. I guess you were about the age I am now when you took Lisa and me on that shopping trip. You were a young mother, and I remember years ago when you snapped photographs at a family Christmas and said to me, "These pictures are for when I'm old and gray." Well, you never let yourself get old and gray. You could have had thirty more years on this earth, Aunt Sandi. You were in your early fifties. That's too young. You could have gotten better. You could have been happy. And although I wish that someone had been a better word detective, I have a feeling that it wouldn't have mattered all that much. I think your mind was made up, and I'm just sorry that things hadn't been different for you. I am sorry that you suffered so much and saw only one way out.

I didn't name my son after you, but sometimes when I say, "It's Andy," it sounds a bit like "It's Sandi!" It's a funny thing, and, in its own strange way, it's kind of nice. I'll tell him about his great-aunt one day. I'll tell him about your laugh, how genuine and distinct it was. Yes, I think you two would have liked each other.

That little Andy of mine is such a cutie. I know that as a mother, I'm kind of biased, but my kid is definitely in the top five percent of cute babies worldwide. And he just gets cuter! One of my clients, whose daughter is two weeks older than Andy, emailed me today and asked if Andy was giggling yet. Apparently her daughter just started giggling last week. And I wanted to respond that my kid's been giggling for months! Months! And that he is obviously advanced, and that the giggling is shoving him right into top three percent of cuties and that there's something seriously WRONG with her dumb little baby. But instead I played it cool and said, "Yeah, he's been giggling." Period, end of sentence, teeth on tongue.

Mothers usually don't appreciate it if you refer to their offspring as dumb little babies.

Anyway, all of that being said, there is one kid that is slightly cuter than my Andy. I know, it hardly seems possible, but his name is Robert, and he's one of the babies at Andy's day care. He is ALWAYS crying when I see him, and he has the most sweetly pitiful face, with gigantic, watery, red-rimmed blue eyes. His cry is sad and soulful, and the pure misery that this kid must endure somehow makes him especially cute. Funny how that works. I want to scoop up that sad little Robert and cuddle both him and Andy- Andy in my right arm, Robert in my left. I realize that this is making me sound like kind of a psycho, but I've really taken a shine to that little crybaby. That being said, I know it's inappropriate to pick up other people's babies at the day care, so I don't, but, believe me, I've been tempted. If I walked in and some strange lady was holding Andy, I would tackle her and beat her in the face with my purse. Some strange lady other than the day care providers, who, as I may have mentioned, are strange enough. It takes a special breed of woman to spend their days locked in a room with a bunch of babies, and it seems that one ingredient in that breed is battiness. Other ingredients include the desire to hold a job you can perform while not wearing shoes (socks only in the baby room) and a knack for not mixing up babies pacifiers, although I could swear that Andy was sucking on some other kid's binky when I picked him up yesterday. I tried not to make a federal case out of it.

And the phrase "sucking on some other kid's binky" has kind of a dirty ring to it, eh?

When I am not at work, I am with Andy. At this point, I'm having a hard time remembering when I was just out for dinner or drinks without my little guy. I don't like to be apart from him, and I fear that he may grow into a mama's boy who, at the age of 45, will live in my basement and spend Friday nights down at the senior center with me playing a few rounds of Bingo. I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I could easily get a baby-sitter or just go out with the girls while Chris watches Winky, but that's not how I roll. At least not currently. I'm still adjusting to the working mom role and wanting to suck up every extra minute I can have with the little guy. This being said, for those of my friends who do not yet have children and are looking to do that soon, let this be a reminder. Go out to dinner NOW. Go to the movies, go anywhere, even just to the store, on a whim. Because when that baby comes, the amount of times you actually leave the house aside from work is an integer so low that it's barely an actual number.

Andy had a lot of drool-
Enough to fill a swimming pool!

Andy’s bib was always wet-
The wettest wet a bib could get!

Andy didn’t understand
That he couldn’t eat his hand.

And sometimes Andy like to gum
His little blanket- yum, yum, yum!

Andy’s teeth were growing fast.
But baby teeth, they do not last!

Little Andy smiled bright.
One day, Andy, you will bite!

When I see the day care teacher kiss my son on the cheek, I should probably be happy that he's spending his day with adults who kind of love him. Instead, I feel something akin to rage and I want to slap that bitch and tell her that he's MINE and I only I am allowed to cuddle, hug, kiss, and enjoy him.

Sometimes you try to use the nasal aspirator to suck snot of your son's nose. And since you're still kind of learning your way around the nasal aspirator, and your son is extremely wiggly and uncooperative, you accidentally shoot a bit of snot back at your son, and it splatters on his forehead like a disgusting Rorschach.

Sometimes, you spill a little wine on your baby. And, since he already smells a little like vomit from earlier in the day, you get an olfactory image of what life may bring for him in about twenty-one years.

Dear Andy,

Tomorrow, you are four months old! Four months old still sounds pretty young, but to me, you are getting OLD. I know that watching you grow these past four months is nothing compared to how much you will continue to grow, but I am still blown away by how my little itty bitty baby newborn has turned into such a little tough guy already. It's going too fast, and it's only been a third of a year.

I guess I'm not too worried about over-inflating your ego at this point, so let me just say: you are AMAZING. You are ahead of the curve on almost every measurable scale, and the doctor has used the word "perfect" to describe you at your routine visits. You are strong and alert and a good babbler and an adorable smiler and giggler. You are constantly observing, can roll over from your tummy to your back, and have perfected the art of scooting yourself backwards when you're laying down. You play with your little toys, support your weight on your legs when we hold you up, and have a strong grasp. It's getting to the point where I might trust you to hold onto my car keys while we're out and about. Although you might slobber all over my various Preferred Cards, so maybe that's not the best idea.

You started day care last week, and while that's been kind of hard, I think you're doing okay. I'm sorry that we have to deposit you there Monday through Friday, but there's just no other option right now. Hopefully day care will be a positive thing for you and will help further your development even more. Yesterday, the day care teacher said that you sang the "five little pumpkins" song. Clearly, that was a lie since you can't form words, but I guess they do cute little activities with you while you're there, so that's kind of nice. I guess. You already got your first day care cold, though, which definitely sucks. It sucks even more that you passed it on to me almost immediately, but so it goes.

You've given me big smiles every evening when I come to pick you up, so my fears that you will forget your doting mama have been somewhat put to rest. How could you forget me, though, when I spend all of our time together basically just sticking my face in your face? I've been blowing raspberries on your tummy and "eating" your toes and buzzing in your ears, and this makes you smile wide, squeal in delight, and laugh. The sound of your laugh is such wonderful music. Your personality is slowly revealing itself, and I am pleased to announce that you are just sweet and happy as can be. How the heck that happened is one of life's great mysteries since you were essentially bombarded with anxiety and panic rays throughout your entire incubation period. But your daddy's laid-back outlook on life must have prevailed in your genes, so that's good news for all of us.

Aside from being sweet and happy, as evidenced by the way you nuzzle against me, hug my neck, smile, laugh, and hold my hand when I give you your bottle, you are also curious and constantly soaking in the world around you. The other night, we were in your room, and I carried you over to the blinds. I separated the blinds with my fingers so that I could peek out onto the street, and you instantly snapped to attention, widened your eyes, and ducked your head so that you could look out, too. I could almost imagine you thinking, "Whoa, there's a WINDOW behind those things? Lemme see, lemme see!" You love the paintings that we have in the dining room and family room, and you stare at them with your super big eyes. You also love television, and that's totally cool since I love television as well.

And I love you. Oh so freaking much. You have made me so happy, and you are the best thing to ever happen to me. I'm already looking forward to giving you a brother or sister, but I think we'll have to wait a few years on that one. I never thought I'd be big into this family thing, but here I am with an incredible baby boy and already day dreaming about a second. I have to say, I'm pretty good at being a mama, at least so far. I am much more relaxed than I thought I would be, and I'm pretty on my game with you. Who'd have thunk it!?

You have a lot of people in your life that love you. None more than your mama (and your daddy) so don't you forget that, but you've got grandparents who think you hung the moon, your aunts and uncles who are all super proud of you, and tons of other friends who, when they visit, just can't get enough of you. I have a feeling that you're never going to want for anything. I do plan on raising you pretty modestly, though. I don't want you to be spoiled, so don't expect to always get what you want in the way of toys, etc. Just a fair warning. I couldn't bear it if you turned into a brat. I have a vision of who you should be as a toddler and a child, and it does not involve you having a family room full of toys and never learning to understand please and thank you.

Alright, kiddo. Happy four months tomorrow. See you in a few hours when I race to get you at day care. Hope you're enjoying whatever asinine song the day care teachers are singing at you today.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo