you are now eleven months old and you have been a very busy boy. you get into everything; the food and tupperware in the kitchen cabinets, the contents of your diaper caddy, lamp shades and other delicate, expensive, and treasured objects (the paper shades in the basement are of particular interest to you, and i feel sure that you will have an obsession with them until you rip them to shreds, and will then promptly cease to care about them entirely).
you can crawl now…like proper crawl. and you are going. up. the. stairs. you are totally fearless, which makes me insanely worried all the time. you have a habit of crawling to the end of our bed and trying to throw yourself over the foot board. you laugh maniacally while you are doing this, as if imminent death doesn’t phase you at all.
when you were born we couldn’t get you to take a pacifier to save our lives. we tried dozens of “models” and finally had moderate success with the old school green rubber variety. however, now you are rarely seen without a pacifier in your mouth. i was so blase about having a baby who didn’t need a pacifier that i never stopped you from taking it, which thereby unknowingly enabled your current addiction. i fear the shakes that will occur when we finally put an end to the ‘ninny’, as your mom-mom fritz calls it.
you don’t just stop at the pacifier, you put everything in your mouth. shoes, toys, the cat and dog. it is akin to watching a blind man “see” someones face for the first time…it’s as if you can’t “see” the object until you swirl it around in your mouth for a bit. you think it’s hilarious to chew on things, and when i take them from you, you come at me like a vampire zombie and bite at my neck while making “nom nom” noises and giggling. i can’t help but laugh along with you, though i secretly hope this doesn’t encourage you to be a biter.
i have learned the two dirtiest words in the english language, and they are “sleep tight”. i’m not sure who invented skin tight cotton pajamas, but i have dreams about their violent and untimely deaths. you hate these pajamas. we hate them too. forcing your sweet arms into sausage casing every night is the worst part of my day. your wailing indicates that you agree with me. however, we continue to use them because they are “safe” (though this is questionable because you usually scream as though we’ve dislocated a shoulder and often times we feel like we’ve been through a war after getting them on you).
you insist upon smothering yourself with the blanket at night…and i routinely check to see if your head is under cover (it almost always is) and then sneak into your room to pry you from the brink of suffocation. i also cover your feet up for you, you’re welcome.
the other night your father and i were watching tv in the basement and the monitor began to crackle. we though that we were experiencing some wifi interference, and checked the screen, turns out that you’d found the video monitor. in a scene not unlike the blair witch project, we watched you methodically attempt to pull the monitor from the wall, while we simultaneously refused to intervene so as not to confuse your bed time. guess we need to move that.
you are no longer my ‘good eater’ (i guess i let myself get smug about that as well). you refuse things you used to love (green beans, broccoli, and mint and sweet potatoes, apple, and cinnamon) and seem to only be interested in what we are having. i glommed onto this concept and attempted to make you “big boy” food which only resulted in a stink eye the likes of which i’ve never seen. mac and cheese? absolutely not! chunks of pizza from my plate? oh hells no. brussels sprouts? yep! you absolutely love them. please explain yourself! other things you’ve loved recently, slowly simmered beans, chicken and apple sausages, and waffles and pancakes.
i’ll give you one thing kid, you keep me guessing!
until next time…