an open letter to fritz | vol. 3

dear fritz,

you aren’t a baby any more. i mean, you’ll always be ‘my baby’, but from a medical standpoint you now qualify as a toddler. this has been a difficult adjustment for me. i love the ways you are becoming an individual, and demonstrating the personality that i’ve come to adore, but in so many ways it’s just. too. fast. the first year flashed by with a speed that i never knew was possible. i miss your baby snuggles. i long for the days when you would lay your head on my shoulder and nod off. i truly regret not holding you your entire first year (though most would admit that i came pretty damn close).

at the bridge

for all of the things that i miss there are a million more to cherish each day. you are a true joy to be around. your presence lights up every room you enter. you are almost always smiling, and it’s infectious. strangers are drawn to your happy disposition, and i just stand behind you and beam in pride. you are incredibly social and interactive and flirt with pretty ladies all the time. you even scored me an express lane checkout (despite the overflowing cart) when the grocery store was packed on a sunday afternoon. thanks for that! you are fascinated by other children and love to watch them play. i can see the frustration in your eyes that you are, as yet, unable to join them.

you aren’t always smiling though. the most notable time is during your baths. i’m baffled by it, but you detest bath time. i think you must have drowned in a past life because you are terrified of sitting in the bathtub. you stand at the edge, clinging to me and papa fritz, and making this soft whine/mew to indicate your fear and discomfort. washing your hair is the worst part. like, the worst part of my whole day, not just bath time. you shriek. a lot. when we are done you stand (never sit in the tub!) and give us the stink eye for several minutes straight while wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands. i keep thinking that if you could just get used to it, you’d love it. you are not convinced, however, and bath time continues to be a nightly struggle.

you’ve expanded your culinary preferences even wider recently with calamari, chili powder, cumin, mushrooms, cheese, lettuces, rice, waffles, teriyaki sauce, hot dogs, potato salad, deviled eggs, and birthday cake (of course). you are currently really partial to brussels sprouts blended with acorn squash and a puree of mango, pears, and spinach. you’ve reached the stage where you watch us move food from the plate to our mouths and then lick your lips (honestly? if you weren’t adorable it would be a little creepy). however, you are kinda lazy and want us to fork it into your mouth for you.

we’ve recently baby-proofed the house with gates, cabinet locks, and (even more!) bite bumpers for the crib. you pinched your pudgy little fingers in the tv cabinet the other day and i’d just finally had enough. you now hang onto the gates like a little inmate, but papa fritz and i feel much safer.

you’ve become a little zombie baby. true story, you totally bit my face the other day.

apologies for the crappy cell phone pic, but do you see those four welt marks in the middle of the generally red and inflamed area? yeah, those are from your teeth. the physical marks faded, but the scar to my soul lingers. now when you come in for “kisses” i cringe, and you shy away. i’m scared that i’m slowly training you not to give me kisses. one the one hand, this is good because you clearly don’t understand what “kisses” actually means. on the other, i kinda love them. even though they hurt. last night, while i was nibbling on your chubby thigh, papa fritz said “no wonder he bites! you are always nomming on him!” he’s right. sorry. you are nommable.

for your birthday you received several plastic toy hammers (totally cliche, i know). you use these to beat yourself, us, and the animals mercilessly. you’ve also taken to sitting with your back to the wall and banging your head against it while making eye contact with us. i don’t know if this is a “cry for help” or if you are just trying to see how hard your skull is. anyway, stop it. it freaks me out.

every day with you is a new and exciting adventure. i love you to little tiny bits and pieces. totally just realized i have to give you a bath again tonight. ugh.

i love you,



is it ever really baby proof?

fritz is sick.

i’m not sure exactly what is wrong, but the poor little guy is not feeling up to par. he’s been having some gastrointestinal distress (i won’t disgust you with details), and has been generally out of it. also, now he has a bad diaper rash (not the diaper rash) from said gastrointestinal distress. things that should not be are very red and swollen.

he’s in the snuggly phase of being sick, though that was probably brought on by the benedryl i gave him more than anything else. in my defense: i had to. apparently some diaper rashes are quite itchy because the kid can’t keep his hands out of his diaper. he hasn’t been eating well, and to be honest, i could tell it was coming on. he’s so stoic though that i usually end up making an appointment in the midst of his worst symptoms, thereby negating any positive effect the appointment could have. i have to learn to read him better.

anyway, two nights ago he crawled up the stairs to sit with me while i was making dinner. i gave him some old plastic crate & barrel measuring spoons to play with/chew on. he was content, and my dream of having a child play happily underfoot while i prepared dinner was finally realized.

last night, the same thing happened. only this time, when i turned away, he promptly discarded the measuring spoons and dove for the expensive organic oatmeal that he eats for breakfast every morning. you know, the container with the spout in the side of the box that won’t stay closed no matter how well you tuck it back in?

he spent the next several minutes licking powdered oatmeal off his hands and fighting the dog for the pile on the floor while i transferred the contents of the faulty packaging to ancient hand-me-down tupperware container. take that baby-mess-maker!

note to self: finish baby-proofing the house.