Dear Son A*:

You are one month old. Actually, you are one month old and a couple of days. I would’ve written this post on the day of your month birthday, but you preferred that my hands were kept busy in other ways, such as butt patting and diaper changing.

It’s strange to think that one month ago (and a couple of days) I had trouble driving my car because the steering wheel kept rubbing against my enormous belly. Now I have trouble driving because I’m trying to steer and keep a pacifier in your mouth because, let’s face it, right now the car seat is *not* your friend.

Other things that are not your friend:

• Your swing
• Your infant-to-toddler rocker
• Your bouncy seat

Things that are your friend:

• Your pacifier
• Your Ergo
• Any human who is willing to let you lay on their chest to sleep and or pat your little butt into slumberland

For you, Son A, are all about the personal touch that comes from human comfort. Which is brand new to me: I believe the first time your brother snuggled with me was after a nap when he was over 18 months. I remember thinking, “This is nice. This won’t last.” And it didn’t. So to slow down because you think we move to fast, well, that’s a stretch for me.

So is sharing a bed. Dude, you really really dig our bed. And so do I: but mostly because it was *my* bed. Now it’s your father’s and my bed. And you think that it’s for all three of us. . . . This could be a problem.

You are quite a quaint creature. It shocks me every time I look down at you while your nursing (or pushing off of me while I’m convincing you that the jubbly is indeed an okay thing) because you are *so* different from your brother. Yes, every kid is different: I recognize that. But the depth of those differences is just so striking. I got used to one type of kid: a tan, blond mover and shaker. And now I have a pale, brown-haired cuddler. How these traits can coexist is going to be an interesting adventure. It’s probably a good thing that I’m so sleep deprived that I can’t fully recognize what’s going on, because I might just toss in the towel and move to Ireland (that’s what I was going to do before I met your dad: oh, that life-plan-disrupting father of yours).

I would continue to wax eloquent about you on the internet, but unlike your Blogstar brother, you don’t seem to want to be talked about. How do I know? The vocal yowlings seem to indicate that you believe my hands could be put to better use.

Back to the butt pat.

*Not to be confused with Son J. I figured letter designation was preferable to number designation, cause really, who wants to be number 2?

Little A Adventures