Dear Son A,

Do you know what tomorrow is? That’s what your Pappy asked you yesterday. To which you responded: Baph. Just like Mr. Peepers. You also hit things repeatedly just like he does. But I digress.

You responded: Baph. And Pappy said: That’s right! It’s your 2/3s birthday! Which means you have another doctor’s appointment in a month! You seemed a little introspective regarding that. I thought more about how you will be jubbly-free in four months which probably means you might need to eat actual food at some point. Since, you know, you’ll need some sort of nourishment. I suppose. It’s hard to Baph on empty. Although my friend’s mom’s friends juiced everything with the goal of someday living off of air. . . Yeah.

I’d feed you more solids if you would actually process them properly. But you’re a hoarder. You freely share smiles and drool and your political opinion, but the dumpage is lacking. Some would say: hurrah! Less diaper changes! But that whole Einstein equal-and-opposite-reaction thing means that the lackage of the poo creates an increase in the yowling, the hurt tummies, and the gruntage-with-popping-veins-in-the-head action. Perhaps you’ll be able to use those skills as a future American Gladiator: they don’t seem to mind the popping veins and lack of verbage.

Oh, my little Mama’s Boy, some days I don’t know what to do with you. You want to be held. But you want to be held with the caveat that you can use people as your human jungle gym: ah, the personal touch. Frequently after picking you up from the nursery I hear: Wow – I got a work out today. You’re helpful that way – a free personal trainer. Instead of barking at them to work harder, you just pick up the jumping pace. Always the encourager.

You also like to encourage me to pick you up. I walk by: happy noises. I keep walking: cranky noises. If I round the corner: wails and protests and threats to vote for the candidate who will prosecute irresponsible parents. Me thinks that would be Hillary: she does say it takes a village. But she also only had one kid, and I have your brother, aka. Turbo Tot or Dr. Entropy, as Granddaddy likes to call him.

Your brother thinks you’re pretty swell. And so far he doesn’t mind when you take his toys, mostly as long as he can play along or instruct you as to which toys would be suit your level of enjoyment. To which you certainly have an vocal opinion if he chooses wrong and he quickly replaces the toy saying: Sorry, Little A! Sorry! Here! Toy! Be happy! That’s enough! Quiet! That’s enough! Be happy! I can’t imagine where he picked that up.

So far you have no teeth. But you’re working the whole “But I’m Teeeeeeething” angle – like you have since about two months. Another way to be held and loved. But you are making strides in the mobility department. You’ve been army crawling for quite some time, sometimes up on all fours rocking back and forth. Mostly you use your new found moving talents to claw your way to me to, shockingly enough, be held. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve found you at the foot of the stair wailing because “I’ve been left! Alone! And they’re never coming back! And I’m so voting for Hillary, and Granddaddy will never let me hear the end of it, but they forced me to! They did!”

But sometimes you roll simply for the pleasure of it. Or to get a toy. Mostly books. Which you gum into oblivion. Or sometimes you find your favorite toy on the floor: a spoon. It’s the only way I can get anything done in the kitchen. You find such simple joy in looking at the shininess, trying to shove the whole thing in your petite mouth, banging it on the counter. It makes me sing the Mr. Rodger’s song, but don’t worry, darling: your brother will always bring you a spoon. And a fork and knife to match. Because we must match in this house, you know.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings