Greetings, Son.

Well, you’re nineteen months . . . and a bit.  I should’ve written this sooner, as I should with many other posts, but I do have yet another excuse:  we weren’t speaking to each other.  I had a case of Crankee ‘Ormonays (as the French are inclined to say) and you had a case of being nineteen months . . . and a bit.  I’m sure your thoughts have been similar to mine:  “I don’t know what happened.  I went to sleep, and when she got me up, she was Crabby Psycho Mama!  I mean, what’s the big deal with flinging oatmeal all over my high chair . . . and bib . . . and freshly washed hair.  I was expressing myself just like Madonna says.”

Nineteen months . . . and a bit.  What are you up to these days?

Sharing a mouthload of teeth.  More are coming in.  Yes, I can hear other folks saying, “Well, that’s why he’s cranky.”  But it’s so much more.

You are trying to speak.  You said “shoe” the other day.  “Tweu” is how is came out.  This should be a great word except for the fact that it reveals we go out EVERY DAY because I don’t have enough energy to keep you entertained at home.  I feel like it’s a cop out, but I guess whatever gets us through our day, eh?

You open doors.  This is not my fault.  Nor is it the fault of your granddaddy, supposedly.  But before you went up to the grand’rents, you simply pulled on doors, not turned the knob to explore the hidden contents and wreak havoc (or at least watch tv and talk on the phone at the same time – you’re very talented).

You are asserting your human right to have an opinion about food; however, your opinion is generally of a negative nature (and by negative, I mean flinging arms, wailing, and trying to throw yourself out of your seat rather than following Bartleby and saying, “No, I would prefer not to”).  If you could, you would eat oatmeal with cottage cheese and dried apples, organic breakfast bars, and Boca Burger chicken nuggets all day long.  Except yesterday when you discovered the beauty of stuffed French toast:  me thinks breakfast is going to be your meal of choice . . . man, that granddaddy of yours certainly has made an impact.  Oh, and I tried to get you to eat a pb’n'j:  foolish, foolish mortal that I am.

You enjoy watching Jakers.  And Sesame Street.  And 24.  And Judge Judy.

You read books.  Picture books that I check out from the library.  Board books are fun, but picture books are where it’s at.  Most moms would freak out that their kid would tear the pages, but either I’m more relaxed (HA!) or I’m more  lazy, because I let you have free reign with them.  You carefully turn each page, looking over the contents, murmuring while pointing out certain objects.  It’s very sweet.

You cuddle.  Sometimes.  Sometimes you hit, but in the morning when I get you up out of your crib, you lay your head on my shoulder.   Last night while I was working on a Monster Sudoku (sacred time, as you know), you kissed my arm five times.  You kissed my cheek twice.  You kissed my Sudoku three times.  And I still didn’t beat it:  but I did feel a little sunnier, particularly since that’s the first time you really touched me since going to get you at Gran’s (you flung yourself in her arms when you saw us – nope, no vindictive nature in you, kid:  maybe you were trying to kiss away all the little knife wounds you caused with each act of ignoring).

I keep telling myself that you are a delight.  Because you are.  But with my Ormonays and your being nineteen months . . . and a bit, well, sometimes we just don’t connect.  Or we connect a little too well, and your father has to separate us lest he lose “husband” and “father” titles because we no longer exist.

I love you, Boo.  Should we go get your shoes and pick out a toy at the Dollar Store?  Because *somehow* I forgot to bring home your new Easter toy – I don’t know how we forgot that . . .

JJ Jawings, Mama Musings