Dear Son A,

You’re five months, and a bit.  Which as you’re learning, it’s not unusual for me to write you your month letters a few days late.  Although it is fairly pathetic since I’ve been posting every day due to Nablopomo.  But due to my lack of sleep (which you may or may not have something to do with:  I’m trying not to point any online fingers), I’m a bit fuzzy with dates.  Because I thought yesterday was your five month birthday.  But it wasn’t.  It was Sunday.  So I figured hey:  I can wait another day because I’d rather post happy youtube clips – they’re faster.  And another product of my lack-of-slumber is my tendency to talk in one really long sentence.  Which this paragraph really is:  I’m just putting in periods for those who don’t dig the Jane Austen writing style (i.e. TAKE A BREATH AND USE A PERIOD UNLESS THOSE WERE INVENTED ONLY DURING THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION IN WHICH I TAKE BACK MY ALL CAPITOL LETTERS RANT pleaseandthankyou).

So enough about that.  On to you.  Because that’s what this blog post is all about:  you.

I wish that I could write more specifics about how you’ve grown, changed, developed over the past month.  But honestly:  I can’t remember.  Gran will ask me what I did the day before:  can’t remember that, either.  At least I haven’t forgotten about *you* yet, although this morning when I was getting your brother ready for school and you were pleasantly babbling at the toy that hangs above you on the changing table, I did momentarily think as I was loading stuff in the car, “Something’s missing . . .”

Perhaps that’s why you’re the more “verbal” child.  Lordy, you talk.  “Aaah, ooooh, aaaah.”  Throughout most of the day.  You coo for the ladies at the store.  You giggle for your dad.  And you happily babble at your brother.  It’s so pleasant.  Except for, uou know, the times that you’re yowling because “the sky is falling:  someone is not holding me:  this is not right:  oh, the injustice of it all.”  Or “call child services:  I’m starving and have not had my feeding needs met when I had an inkling that I was hungry:  but wait, what is this boob thing you’re giving me?  I hate it, and I’m never going to be full again!  Oh wait, shiny pacifier . . .” or “I . . . . HATE . . . . SLEEP!!!!”  You know, those times.

I must admit I’m not on top of what you’re “supposed” to be doing developmentally.   A friend with a younger baby asked, “Is he sitting up?”  With your brother I knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing and when:  and he did it on the nose.  For you, I’m happy to know that you’re fed, dressed, and have not been packed away in a box by your brother who gets a little irritated when you’re irritated:  “Little A!  Hush!  Now!”  Hmmm:  however could he have come up with that phrase . . .

So, I don’t know what you’re “supposed” to be doing.  But I can tell you some of the things you do do.

• You do not poop for 36 hours if fed rice cereal.  And then the motherload happens.  I’m honestly scared to take you out when I think we’re due for The Arrival and warn people not to squish you too much.

• You enjoy eating sweet peas.  Hopefully your tookus enjoys getting *rid* of sweet peas as much.

• You like to arch your back.  Rolling over – not so much.  But arching is big fun.  I think it’s your way of being non-committal:   am I on my back?  Or my belly?  Or neither?  Tricky . . .

• You enjoy taking your pacifier out of your mouth.  And sometimes you enjoy putting it back in.  And I have an inkling that you use this power for evil sometimes, say if you want attention, so you throw your pacifier out and yowl and I put it back in to quiet you down and then resume my activity (which usually is driving) and you flick it back out again.  My favorite is when you throw it under your brother’s car seat.  Your dad doesn’t so much like to hear how I’m driving down College while reaching for your plug cause, you know, I’m on the phone with him as well.  What can I say?  Moms can multitask in all situations (some are more safe than others).

• You like my Ipod.  Correction:  you like my headphones.  And want to use them.  Or at least do not want me to use them and grab the cord and wrap it in your teeny tiny freakishly strong fists.

• You love your brother.  When he comes in the room exclaiming, “Little A’s awake!  Mornin!  Happy to see you!” you smile.  Unless you’re wrapped in the Swaddle Blanket of Life and are fairly upset that no one has freed your arms, in which case you continue to voice the injustice of trapped limbs (if these scaring experiences cause you to become a lawyer, please be one that fights for human rights; otherwise, I fear you may become unbearable).  When JJ brings you toys, you pleasantly take them, but mostly you want to play with your favorite toy:  him.  He dances and sings and falls over, all just to make you laugh.  He’s your puppet.  Granddaddy commented that you probably won’t get into as much trouble as your brother, but I said that’s because you’ll be the evil genius planting the mischief in JJ’s head and then put on your innocent look:  “Don’t look at me:  I’m the good one.”

• You love your pappy.  When he comes home for the day and we’re sitting on the couch reading The Berenstein Bears and the Messy Room for the twelfth time that day, you stand up straight.  Then arch your back.  And start pumping your right arm.  *Always* with the right arm.  Over.  And over.  And over.  Whang.  Whang.  Whang.  It’s almost like you’re one of those flashlights that don’t need batteries:  you just wind this handle which somehow charges it.  Perhaps that’s why you don’t dig the swaddle:  we’re inhibiting your life expression.  But if you could learn to be expressive at appropriate times of day (i.e. not all 24 of them), you can gain your freedom.  Until then, Pappy loves you, and Pappy loves you all sausaged up.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings