Out as Long as In

Dearest Monster,

Today my sweetheart, you are 9 months old, 39 weeks exactly. My darling, sweet, loving baby, is it possible for you to stop moving for one moment? No, seriously, you are nonstop. You are a perpetual motion machine. I’m pretty convinced that if we could harness your energy, you’d power at least the entire United States, if not the entire North American continent.

This birthday is a difficult one for your mommy. Today, you are out in the world as long as you were inside of me. I don’t know why, but it’s hard for mommy to imagine that you will officially be part of the greater world longer than I was your world. Don’t get me wrong – it’s WAY better having you out here. It’s WAY more fun for mommy, mostly. It’s WAY better in that I can drink coffee and have wine with dinner. It’s just…it’s weird for me to think that our private time is now going to be something that is so much smaller than the rest of your life when, for the last nine months, it was so much bigger.

You love your world. You eat everything – rice puffs, carrots, green beans, toys, shoes, finger paints, leaves, sticks. If it’s in front of you? Pop! into your mouth it goes. If it isn’t something that can fit in your mouth, by golly, you’ll mash your little fingers all around it. Y’know, the way you stick your fingers in my eyeballs and up my nostrils? I swear, your thumb goes so far up that, really, only a crayon should ever make it up there.You shoved your hand so far into my mouth, I thought you were trying to pull out my tonsils the other day. You’re trying to understand how tongues and teeth work. I know that you want to figure out how to make sounds. Is it really necessary to nearly gag me in the process?

You like to feel my hair tickle your face. You like to feel me kiss your face and zerbert you. You love it when I flip you upside down and have you do a backflip then bellyflop on the bed. You giggle so hard! It’s hilarious. You laugh so hard that your three teeth are visible. You can even, when you laugh like that, see where your fourth tooth is trying to come through. I wish I could make that tooth come in faster. I really really do. It’s taken almost a month, and it’s just NOW starting to cut through the gum.

Monster, Monster, Monster. It’s a good thing that your dogs love you. I mean, a really really good thing. Your new favorite game is to chase them around the house. You also really love playing tug of war with Max. I think you’ve really figured out the game. I’m pretty sure that you know what you’re doing. You giggle like a little maniac. You know that you’re now able to do something that you see mommy and daddy do. That makes you feel like a big grownup boy.

Speaking of being a grownup boy, I know that you’re not that big, but you sure do act like you are. I always find it funny when people say, “He’s so big!” Really, sweetie, you’re kind of not. In fact, size-wise? You’re sort of a peanut. I hate to break it to you. Even worse? Your genes aren’t so much looking like they’re going to help you out much with that one. The problem is, though, that you act older. You hold yourself up like a toddler. You act like a toddler. You look at your world with an older child’s eyes. You do not let anything pass you by. Lord knows, if it tries? You reach out to touch it or to make it look at you. You’re just that determined.

Of course, your determination is, occasionally, a liability. You are thrilled when you can do things for yourself. You refuse, for the most part, to let me feed you with a spoon. You have to being able to pick up your food yourself. You don’t like it when I hold your bottle, but you sort of refuse to lean back to drink and haven’t quite figured out the tipping it up part. Also, you seem to get really angry at sippy cups. I know. You just don’t get it. The sucking is different. The angle is different. They have handles. It’s all very confusing. That being said, throwing your sippy cup across the room because you can’t figure it out is going to be unacceptable behavior soon.

I know that you know the word “no.” You know how I know? Because when I tell you “no”, you turn around, look at me, and laugh at me. You’ve done this for a while. However, now, you know which things I do not want you to do. You know not to play with the cable cord. You know not to play with the little tea tables. You know not to touch the modem. When I’m not paying you enough attention? You do one of these things. As soon as you see me look at you? You look up, give me a smile, and wait for me to come over to you.

I love when you come looking for me. You can see me on the couch; you stand between our two living room chairs, look at me, and your entire face lights up. Your laugh and smile make waking up in the morning worthwhile. I love the little mischievous look on your face that says, “I see you but you don’t see me! Silly mommy!!!”

We’ve started taking you to gym class. You love to climb around and play with the big kids. You climb the little ladder rungs. You manage to hold onto the high bar and find it beyond hilarious when you let go and we let you “fall” to the ground, it’s like baby bungee jumping or something. You love being a little reckless, but at the same time, when it comes to walking? You’re totally cautious. You don’t like to fall when you feel out of control. You don’t like landing on your butt. You don’t like accidentally rolling over when you’re crawling. You’re not real thrilled about crawling into furniture, but you seem to keep doing it anyway.

You love school. You love Miss Laura. You love Miss Amber. When I take you to school, you don’t want me around anymore to feel comforted. You crawl off looking for new toys. Then, you come over to me and grab my leg, climb up it, and try to show me things. You love playing with finger paints. You love anything that you can do with your hands. You’ve started to wave good-bye and hello. You look at your hand, sometimes, like you’re not sure how it’s connected to the rest of your body. It’s pretty hilarious.

Today, your Daddy took you to the Lego Fest. You apparently loved it. Mommy was out, and you had a boys’ day. I came home to see you playing with your brand new Duplo blocks. You understand how to put them together. You seem as fascinated by them as your daddy is. You just love learning new things and exploring new things. I love watching you play with your new toys and try to show me how to use them.

You know, sweetie, when I was pregnant with you, those nine months ago today, I was upset about my stretch marks. I looked at the ugly red welts on my body and felt like every other mom feels, “What is going ON here?!?!” When the doctor asked me, “what happened here?” as though I’d been abused, I reluctantly pointed out that, no, it wasn’t a bruise, it was a stretch mark. Today, I look at those now-silver lines on my body and they are the only reminder that you were ever in there. Today, instead of you making your imprint on me, I made your imprint on me. Your Sasquatch feet are now a part of me. No matter where you are or where I am, I will always have you with me physically. Someday, as I told you earlier, you will be embarrassed by mommy’s tattoos. That’s ok. Someday, you will understand them. Someday, you will understand why I wanted to have your feet with me always. Why I wanted to remember when you were small. Why I wanted to make you a permanent part of who I am physically, for all the world to see.

My sweet, darling, amazing, little Monster. You ARE a Monster. You climbed all over everything at the pediatrician’s office for your nine month appointment. You climbed on the chairs. Then over to your stroller. Than along the drawers on the exam table. You opened and closed the doors in the room. You managed to get yourself all twisted up in the exam table paper because you wouldn’t be still. Again with the movement.

Little man, this month’s words of wisdom are nothing exceptional. They are for you to be you. Don’t listen to what people say – the good or the bad. Be yourself. Learn to love yourself for what you are, what you can do, and even what you can’t.  You enjoy life but want to rush it away. Try to stop every once in a while. Try to look around you and see your world as more than something to conquer. You may conquer it someday. However, in the meantime, try to stop for a few minutes. Try to enjoy just being yourself. Try to enjoy seeing your world for the first time instead of needing to analyze it and understand it immediately. You will have enough time for that later. However, right now, you will never have a first time for some of these things again.

My dear, darling, wonderful boy. Today, you are a part of the bigger world more than you were ever simply a part of me. The world is luckier for having you in it. The world is just a little bit brighter for having you in it. The world is more technicolor for having you in it. Thank you for being here. While I may be sad that you now know the world longer than you knew me alone, I am glad that you enjoy it so much and glad that I know you.

Love,

Your Mommy

Extraordinary Ordinariness

Some days are perfect simply because they are filled with perfect moments of exceptional ordinariness. Often, life moves so quickly that we forget that the small moments in life are the ones that cause the deepest personal satisfaction. A perfect day does not need to be one that will always be remembered for its grand meaning in life.

Many times, people ask, “how can you be so happy?” My personal philosophy has long been to live a life of no regrets. No regrets does not mean jumping out of every plane or off of every cliff. Sometimes, no regrets means stopping long enough to recognize these moments of pure perfection when they occur. For many years, I’ve lived with the idea that being happy revolves around recognizing that the great moments come along rarely. Wedding days are few and far between. Moments of birth are few and far between, unless, well, you’re that family with 18 kids and their own TLC show. Then, you get one of those every 9-18 months. However, those are the few moments in life that we all know we will remember. The day you bring a new pet home. The day you get your first job or check or performance. All of these are the big moments that everyone remembers on their death bed. These are the moments that, when life flashes before people’s eyes, they say they see.

However, it’s the small moments of perfection in life that create the perfect days. When we have days where all the small things go wrong, we remember that the day is miserable. We think back to the book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day. We know that when we wake up and had forgotten to turn on the coffee pot the night before, that day is going downhill on a banana peel. However, sometimes, we tend to miss the days where where all the little things go well. This is a paean to those moments and days.

Some days simply start with a smile. They are the days where everyone – animals and people – make it through until the alarm actually goes off. They are the ones where the morning routine goes smoothly. They are the ones where the first thing you remember when you wake up is the warmth of a furry (or two furry) little bodies keeping you warm on a chilly November morning. These are the mornings where you feel like a superhero. You know from this moment on that the day is going to go right. Everything is going to be perfect, for that one, short, 24-hour period.

These are the mornings where you take a nice, long, warm shower with no screams of anger from the other room. No baby is angry or pooping. You dry yourself off, pull on your favorite pair of sweatpants, and you don’t end up spending twenty minutes fighting with a tiny, squirming, screaming, snotty little monster while you remove defecation from it’s tiny, squirming, screaming self’s rear end. For the first morning in a week, you take a shower and end up not sweaty immediately after. It’s the first time in months the thought, “Thank GOD for Mike & Mike in the Morning” has gone through your head.

These are mornings where you read, aloud, the Book Review and have a conversation with your breakfast mate about the relative merits of “Magritte’s Imagination” board book versus “Clifford the Big Red Dog” in light of John Irving’s comments that some great fiction is overlooked due to it’s popularity. The argument, of course, ends with concurrence on both ends that while “Magritte’s Imagination” is underrepresented in the mass media, it is a bit abstract for the general reader. In fact, Clifford’s popularity allows the book to reach a greater audience and mass produce its message of puppy goodness. Indeed, these are the moments of pure ordinary that, while cleaning strawberry yogurt of tiny face and hands, are often missed in the rush to move on to the next thing.

These are the days where nap time goes well. The dogs don’t bark all morning. Work is done on time and as planned. Papers are graded as intended. The schedule is back on track. The laundry will be dry in time to finish folding before the kid wakes up from his second nap. All the dishes available to be cleaned are clean. You begin to feel as though this is the life that you meant to live because every single aspect of it is so incredibly well synchronized. These are the days where, indeed, little to nothing appears able to go wrong. In fact, these are the days where the stars are aligned. So rarely, so incredibly rarely, is everything going so perfectly well.

These are the days where instead of getting up angry from a nap, a small, toothy-toothless smile stares up at you when you walk in the room. Where you use the fifteen minutes you have before needing to leave to get a lunch together for yourself. For once, you’re going to be able to eat. Real food. Not some kind of catch-as-you-can snack of Cheddar Jalapeno Cheetos from a vending machine. You eat leftovers. You manage to give the kid a lunch. A real lunch, of, well, baby junk food – baby cheesy poof and sweet potato rice puffs. Ok, there’s no goopy yogurt or veggies or fruits. But hey, not everything can be perfect. This is as near as it gets.

These are the days where the Monster wants to sit with you at music class. Where the Monster wants the comfort of mommy. Where the Monster knows that you are his and gives you the big toothy-toothless smile when dancing around the room. Where you watch the smiles and hear the giggles and see the intensity of interest on a tiny little face discovering the world. These are the days where a small person crawls towards you grinning as he stares up at you, puts his arms out, and climbs into your lap to be with you.

These are the days where you finally realize that the perfect days are full of the most perfectly ordinary moments. You realize this lying in a bed, with three tiny bodies – one human, two furry – all lying comfortably together with you. You realize this while you stare into the dark room, awake, reveling in the absolutely mundane moment in which you are living. You look around in the dim light, you see the slow breathing of the three bodies that rely on you. You have one arm under a tiny person with that same hand stroking the soft fur of a dog. You have another dog curled up at the foot of the bed. You realize that you have reached a certain synchronicity with the world. You close your eyes and doze until one tiny body awakens.

These are the days when you manage to make a dinner, not order one. These are the days where you spend time playing on the floor with the entire family – furry or not – and enjoy everyone’s different personalities. These are the days where, instead of rushing around like a maniac, all things are perfectly timed. These are the days where singing “Nom da ducky” creates giggles in the tub. Where screams reverberating off bathroom walls are of joy and not of anger. These are the days when having a tiny thumb scrape the inside of your nose, finding your own boogers that you didn’t even know existed, while seeing a gleeful, if not maniacal, grin make you laugh through the tears of pain welling up in your eyes.

These are the days where you end with knitting on the couch. Where you find the time to quietly be yourself and reflect upon your day. Where you have just that brief moment of realization that, yes, today was indeed perfect. It may have been the most mundane, ordinary, boring, non-eventful day. However, those small moments that normally you wouldn’t remember are what made it so peacefully, wonderfully, incredibly perfect.

Schmeducation

A tiny five year old looks at the big yellow school bus coming down her street. Her mother sings “The Wheels on the Bus,” but all the little girl does is cry. It’s not that she is afraid of leaving her mother. It’s not that she gets bullied by the bigger kids. It’s that when she gets to school, she is forced to become a different person. She can no longer exuberantly explore toys or ideas. She is forced to sit at a desk. She has to be still. She feels bored and antsy. She likes playing with her toys – making up stories for her dolls to act out, playing teacher with her dolls, building with her blocks. However, everyone tells her that this is fun  not education.

Education, schmeducation. Today, Americans focus on grades, on statistics, on being “correct”. Every few semesters, my students read the Jean Anyon piece, “Social Class and the Hidden Curriculum of Work.” This piece discusses four different social classes and posits, using a sample of five schools, a theory that schools in various socio-economic classes teach those skills which help to perpetuate the cycle of remaining in the same class. Every year, in rereading this essay, I get to the “Middle-class school”, where the importance of education lies in getting the “right” answer, and the validity of using standardized tests to assess students becomes a question. In fact, according to Anyon’s theory, it is the middle-class school, not the two upper classes (Affluent Professional and Executive Elite) who see education as teaching children to find the “right” answer. One child discusses that information goes into the brain as though it is in “cold storage” to be used for later. Regardless of the socio-economic class in which a child goes to school, American schools today focus on the idea of obtaining the correct answer on a bubble test. This brings down the level of education for all children, regardless of economic class.

Sure, many people can argue, and correctly, that “No Child Left Behind” has failed children in many ways. However, is that truly the only failure? American middle-, upper-middle-, and upper-class parents place a great deal of pressure on their children to always be “advanced.” What is “advanced”? Is intelligence truly quantifiable? All children, even the most developmentally handicapped, are advanced in some way.   However, at every stage, parents look at their children to determine whether they are advanced or not.

In The Trouble with Boys, the author, Peg Tyre, posits that the skills that girls tend to exhibit – the ability to sit still, the ability to be quiet and compliant in the classroom – are rewarded as the skills that lead to an “advanced” education. Parents push their children to learn fast, to move fast, to grow up fast. In order for a child to be “prepared,” parents want three year olds to be reading off flash cards and to be doing homework dittos, to prove that they are indeed getting ready for kindergarten. Kindergartens today, according to Tyre, expect five and six year olds to be able to complete tasks that children in my generation were learning in second grade. In a misguided attempt to teach children these skills of correct-answer-finding, Americans are pushing their children beyond their physical and mental maturity levels at a young age. In fact, this pushing, this inability to allow children to develop naturally through play, creates a disinterest in learning that, according to Tyre, causes children in these academic preschools to fall behind by the fourth grade. In addition, it quashes intellectual curiosity.

What about the eight month old who looks at a plastic box for blocks and sees it as a step to climb? In a classroom, this type of thinking is discouraged. The use is inappropriate. However, what is the child truly doing? The child is using creativity as well as problem-solving skills to do what she wants. In addition, the child is exploring her world. Exploration is the key to learning. Exploration is removed from learning when parents and teachers fail to see the intelligence of a child that falls outside the parameters of academics.

Many educators in higher education bemoan the loss of intellectual curiosity among their students. By the time young people reach college, they have found that this “right answer” mentality is so ingrained in them that they fear the ability to think for themselves. They fear the opportunity to expand their knowledge base. They are so mired in “grades” and “GPA” and “success” that they have lost the curiosity that is the foundation of these very things.

Parents are partly at fault. Everywhere a mother takes her child, other parents comment – he’s slow, she’s fast, look what he can’t do, ohmigosh, did you see that she did???? These comments establish competition regarding children’s development at such a young age that children no longer know anything but this continuous cycle of do, grow up, not enough, do more. Parents no longer wish for their children to play for the sake of fun. Look at the toys in a toy store. Children can choose from objects that enhance gross motor skills, fine motor skills, development of language, reading skills, tactile skills. The list goes on. However, few toys are deemed suitable just for fun.

Fun isn’t in the vocabulary of American children. The word is apparently not intellectually advanced enough. In NutureShock, Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman discuss programs regarding self-directed play and its importance in the learning process. Indeed, they include research that discusses the important role of play in helping children explore their world and process the information that they garner. Between the removal of play from various early childhood academic programs and the requirement that all children conform to certain social behaviors that may not be natural to them, schools and parents are quashing the desire to form intellectual curiosity.

Many years ago, I babysat over a weekend for a family. Their little 5-year-old son had activities planned throughout the weekend. He had an art class and playdates. His days were scheduled within a minute of wakeup to bedtime. At one point, while driving to his art class at 8am on a Saturday morning, he turned to me and said, “I wanna go fishin’. Please? Daddy sometimes takes me fishin’ over there,” and he pointed to the pond we were driving past. To this day, over ten years later, his little voice rings in my ear causes me to feel heartbroken at having to tell him, “No. You have your art class now. Maybe daddy can take you another day.” Part of me wishes i could go back in time. Sure, art is great for kids to learn. Kids should be engaged in art and music and math and science. However, when these become work instead of fun, children no longer gain from them, only hurt. Fishing teaches – it teaches patience, appreciation of nature, understanding of how life comes and goes. Art is intended to do the same thing. Why is it that American parents seem to think that their children can only learn within a structured setting with a teacher?

Americans – parents and teachers – need to rethink education. Education at the early ages impacts learning at the later ages. Removing the desire to learn through exploration can create generations of children who attain good grades with no understanding or caring as to how they received them or why. Education should teach curiosity, not squash it like a bug. Education should teach. Today’s education doesn’t necessarily do this – regardless of socio-economic class, regardless of gender, regardless of age. Today’s education needs to get back to the roots of stimulating not suffocating children and young adults. Grades may be important for things like college and, potentially, jobs. However, what good are those grades if you blindly stumble through life without trying to explore your world? Get out there, young people. Get out and explore. Explore the world and learn. Be curious. Be brave.

Growth of a Sasquatch

2/23/09

5/31/09

8/19/09

The Halfway Point

Darling Little Monkey,

Today, my darling boy, you are six months old. For the last six months, you have grown more in the world outside than you did in the little insular world inside me. You are now 16 pounds 2 ounces and 26.5 inches long. You are the singularly most aware six month old I have ever met.

Do you know that you’re doing things you really shouldn’t be able to do yet? You crawl. You pull yourself up to stand. You know the word “no”. When I say “no”, you look at what you want, look back at me and smile, look at what you want again, and then keep going. Really, all I want is for you not to eat the cord to the fan. I’m not asking a lot. Really. I promise. I just don’t want you to gum your way to electrocution.

You have the most amazing laugh. When I attack you with kisses, you giggle insanely.

More than that, you love playing with your Max. Whenever I throw the toy? You laugh and laugh and laugh. You think it’s the best thing that Max brings the toy back to you. Max looks out for you. When Max knows that you’re going to do something dangerous, he gets between you and the danger.You love him so much. I know that you two are going to grow up and grow older together. I feel sad, in some ways, that one day Max won’t be here for you. However, I know that the love that you have for him will cancel out the pain that you will feel in the long run. I know that when you are an adult, you will talk about the wonderful little dog you had as a child. That dog named Max.

You love your JD, too. At night, when we give you your last bottle, she hovers in your room. She watches out for you, to make sure nothing is wrong. She may not love when you pull her fur or grab her ears, but she lets you. You still love touching her fur best. You see her and you reach your hands out and you giggle. You giggle and giggle and laugh. Your smile and laugh are infectious, as always. In fact, sometimes, I think that you’re a little confused about whether or not you’re a puppy or whether or not the puppies are babies or something like that.

You are interested in everything around you. All you want to do is explore. Tonight, you tried climbing stairs. You crawled down the hall to our bedroom, then tried to climb the puppy stairs onto our bed. You want to be everywhere and do everything. You love your music class. However, you get frustrated when you can’t do what the toddlers around you do. You get mad at yourself so easily. I wish that you would just enjoy being you. You are a wonderful little you.

You started rolling over on your changing table. My question is, is this really necessary? I mean, come on kidlet, I just want to change your pee and poop. I’m not torturing you. You’d think this was some kind of Baby Gitmo. But, no. I promise it’s not. Also, that dying rodent scream? It’s wholly unnecessary. It’s loud. It gives me a headache. Sometimes? When it goes on too long? It actually makes me nauseous. Could we please start trying to find another sound?

Speaking of sounds, after my freaking out about your not using “m” or “b” or “d” sounds? You actually said “moo” and “ma” yesterday. God bless you. I love you, but you really do want to drive me a little insane, don’t you? I know that you’re more interested in the whole activity aspect of your life. However, if you could throw me a bone here so that I don’t need to worry about your social development? I’d be pretty cool with that.

Oh my darling boy. I love that you are so interactive. That you love to play. That you love to investigate. Although, I’d probably LIKE it a lot more if you waited until, say, 7 or 8 am. However, your little face when I come into your room in the morning is so amazing. You look at me like I’m saving you from some kind of little baby jail. Your face lights up. Your gummy little smile glows in the morning light that comes in through the room darkening shades. In fact, some mornings, I wonder if it’s just your smile and not the sun. I know, that’s cheesy to say out loud. However, I’m your mommy. I get to say those things.

You love to watch sports. You’re so happy watching the NFL channel now that we have it. Thank goodness that Comcast and NFL Network ended their three year disagreement. You just stand there and stare at the television.

You are the sweetest little man, my darling. You like to put your hand against my cheek when you’re tired. You do to me the same thing I do to you. You like to play with my hair. Mostly you just bat at the curls and watch them bounce around. Sometimes, you brush my hair from my face when we’re taking a snuggle nap on the couch. Occasionally, you enjoy pulling and yanking on my hair. You like to take my glasses off when you’re sleepy. You associate no glasses with “sleepy mommy”, I think. You don’t chew on them. Usually, you just hand them to me but don’t want them on me. You are gentle and sweet. When you accidentally bit me, I yelped “ouch!” Your little bottom lip quivered, your little face turned red, your little face scrunched up, and then you cried. You didn’t like the idea that you had hurt me. My darling boy, you are a sweet little man.

I love you so much, my dear. Yes, I wish you wouldn’t scream. Yes, I wish that you would somehow, some way, some day, figure out how to control your frustration with yourself. You are doing more than you should be and are so strong in so many ways. Yet, at other times, you are still such a little, tiny baby. You are so much more needier than you realize. You want mommy, and you miss mommy. For the first time, last Friday, you pitched a fit when I left you with people you knew that weren’t me. Today, I woke you up from your nap and gave you to a friend who was visiting while I used the bathroom. Apparently, you looked around and couldn’t find me and screamed. Oh my darling boy, I hope you know that mommy will always come back to you. Mommy will always be here for you. Mommy will  never let you down, at least not intentionally. Unfortunately, mommy doesn’t wear a diaper. Mommy sometimes needs to do grownup mommy things that you really don’t need to watch.

You love the water. Ever since we brought you on vacation to the lake, you love the water. You splash so much in your bathtub now, that the whole floor and the whole mommy end up sopping and dripping. You are fearless. You love being in grownup pools.

I’m almost sorry we brought you to the lake this summer. However, I can’t wait to see you there next summer. Unlike most babies, you refuse to just sit in your baby pool. You have to crawl, which is kind of like swimming, apparently.

We took you on your first trip to New York City. You loved the train. You were fascinated by Central Park. You kind of screamed through the Guggenheim. Ok, that was my fault. I really wanted to see the exhibit. I asked too much of you. I know that mommy should have made you nap. But really? First time in 50 years that Frank Lloyd Wright’s work was shown at the Guggenheim? Mommy couldn’t resist. Although, you did love some of the pictures. You loved the replica of the Hillside Theater Curtain. You loved some of the more colorful drawings. You refused to sleep because too much action was occurring around you.

According to your pediatrician, you are “showing signs of early toddlerhood.” My darling. Don’t rush your life away. Enjoy the wonder that you see. Enjoy the world around you. Enjoy being a little tiny you. You will not be this amazed at things for long. Enjoy the amazement. Enjoy the joy. This is my advice to you, not just as your mommy but as someone who has rediscovered amazement and joy because of you.

Oh my baby boy. You are so much more wonderful than your mommy could have imagined. You are bright eyed. You are sweet. You are everything a mommy could wish for. My one wish for you is that you would just move more slowly. The world is so big and beautiful. You are a wonderful baby. I wish for you that you would simply recognize how amazing you are. You seem to always want to be something more. You want to be older. You want to be bigger. You want to do more and be more. My one great wish for you at your half birthday is that you will be happy being you. I want you to accept you for the wonderful you that you are. Every day, you remind me more and more why I wanted you in my life. There are days where I miss having you inside me all the time. I miss being able to talk to you, knowing that all that mattered was my voice and not what I said. When I was pregnant, I cursed my stretch marks. Now? I love them. They are my one reminder that you were once a tiny baby. They are my one reminder that you were once inside of me. They are my one reminder that, as independent as you are, you are a part of me – not just emotionally, but also physically.

At this halfway point in your first year, I am so glad to be your mommy. I am looking forward to watching you grow more and evolve more. I love you more than I thought it was possible to love someone. You, my dearest, darling boy, are at an important halfway mark now. You are my world and have made your mommy and daddy’s world that much better. You are our world and we are yours, for now. We will do our best to help you explore your world and expand from here. Happy first half birthday my dearest, darling, wonderful, handsome, amazing…perhaps there are no words to describe you. You are my son. That is all. That is enough.

A Dream Reimagined

1999: A young woman sits amongst nearly 200 other young people. The skies are gray and rain falls, sometimes heavily, sometimes just hanging there, suspended in time. You know that kind of rain. The kind where the water sits midair as though it wants to fall, but someone has hit a universal pause button and the rain just seems to linger in the air. The big white tent covers only the young people dressed in their Sunday best and their black robes. The young girl eats up the moment. All the time, effort, and energy put into this graduation seems to be fulfilling her heart and soul. She sits there slurping up the graduation speech platitudes and Dr. Seuss rhymes. “Oh, the places I’ll go,” she thinks dreamily to herself. Her plans – to work for a year then move to the Big City to get a graduate degree and live the high powered life that she has prepared for over the last twenty-one years. The three years of college, the academic honors, the accolades. She has prepared for this exciting life her whole life. She imagines herself in a city apartment, lying in on Sundays with the Times Book Review and coffee. She looks forward with a gleam in her eyes.

2009: Sitting here, that girl seems so far away. Today, that girl is somewhere still inside me. The life imagined took a different path. There are no lazy Sundays in a sleek apartment. There are early mornings with two dogs and a baby. There are no power suits. There are jeans and tshirts. There was no high powered school with prestige and clinging green vines. There was the state university, as good as any other school but without the name.

A life imagined ten years ago is not the life lived ten years later. The Times Book Review occasionally lands on my breakfast table on a Sunday. However, instead of lazing around all day poring over it, I read it in snatches throughout the week. Instead of the fashionable power suits, I dress as a mom and wife. Instead of being a power player, I am a floor player – toys for dogs and child scattered on the floor. Instead of the sleek furniture, I sit on comfortable furniture, occasionally mismatched, some handed down, with spit up stains on it. And yet? Happiness is within my reach.

Looking back on the original dream, it is just that, the dream of a young woman who felt her potential lay only in that which society deemed “successful.” Success is not a job or a salary. Success is individualized. Success can be in the wag of a tail, the touch of a familiar hand, the smile of a child. After meeting Mr. Adventure in that first job out of college, I knew that he was my success. A life with him, even after that very first date exactly ten years ago tonight, would be the most fulfilling life choice I could make.

Instead of applying to high powered schools costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, I lived in my old apartment until we moved in together, not even a year after meeting. I can still remember that first night, starting out in the old Coach’s sports bar in Hartford at happy hour. The three of us – Mr. A, another friend, and I – went back to my apartment in Hartford. The apartment with Crazy Lady Across the Hall. The apartment that cost $500/month, heat and hot water included. The apartment where some of my best memories took place. The apartment where, without a ring, without a warning, Mr. A first asked me to be his wife. Although, he wouldn’t let me tell anyone until he had bought and presented me with the ring. That, to me, was the real proposal. That quiet moment, looking out my window as I silently wondered if not living on my own, if giving up my own space, was the right decision.

It was.

Today, I live the full-on suburban life. A small house in the yuppy area. Two dogs. Baby. Two cars. There are no late hours, except on a Friday or Saturday night. Work/life balance is more important than salary. Material goods are fine – we have a good amount of them – Wii, computers, cars, you name it. However, more importantly, we have each other. I look over at the other chair and see Mr. A playing with the remote and trying to find a channel to watch. We are that yuppy couple. We don’t lie in a stylish bed sipping coffee on weekends. We get up, change Monkeyman, and get our day started. We don’t have a hip lifestyle. We go to Home Depot and BJs. However, these are the dreams I have now.

My job is not high powered. However, it’s highly fulfilling. Every time I walk into a classroom, I feel a rush of adrenaline. A job working at a law firm, even with the rush of a negotiation, could never compete, to me, with that feeling of a room full of faces. That room full of faces is pure opportunity. It is the opportunity to impact a life, sometimes to change it. It is the opportunity to fulfill all of that potential by helping others to fulfill their potential. It is the dream of being important, but in a more personally satisfying way.

In the other room, a tiny little person sleeps. To most, he’s nothing special. He’s a kid, like most kids. He cries; he laughs. Yet, he is the true dream. He is what life is about now. He is the product of two people who love each other and love him. He is what life is about now. His joys are ours. His sadnesses are ours as well. His frustrations create the most ear splitting screams. His excitement also creates that same exact scream. Really? It’s all about the loud, bleeding ear screams these days. However, the difficulties and joys of having him here are more fulfilling than the difficulties and joys of academics or of brief writing or of money making. They are the joys and difficulties that come with a sense of self-satisfaction knowing that you are changing a small life.

I have traveled – Ireland, Montreal, Spain, France, San Francisco, Germany, England – and have drunk in the world. I have lived, and still live, a life that is complete with art, literature, and, come on folks, wine and beer. I have seen the sights in various countries. I have inhaled the smells of hops in Dublin, of the ghosts of the 60’s in Haight-Ashbury. I have gorged on the art in Spain and the views of Lucerne and Connemara. I have lived more than one person should be allowed to live.

Oh the places I have gone! Not just physically, but mentally as well. I have experienced the highs and lows. The what-ifs of life. Did I make the right decisions? Did I choose the right path? Did I find the right life for me?

The answers, resoundingly, are yes. I look around my home, not just a house where I live but a home where I love, and see a dream reimagined. I imagine the highs and the lows to come. I imagine the choices I have yet to make. I see the future of my family – the inevitable loss of the dogs, the inevitable high school graduation and subsequent college years of my son. I look towards these and realize that at some point, this dream now will be reimagined yet again.

However, I look forward to these futures with the same gleam in my eyes. A little older, a little wiser, a great deal happier. This may not have been the life that a 21 year old imagined. However, it is a life that I am glad is not imaginary. It is my life. It is my joy. This is my moment in time to enjoy being the me I have become. And so, I plan to do just that.

It’s Creation

“The opposite of war isn’t peace. It’s creation.” Jonathan Larson

Creation inspires. However, people traditionally think of the creation of art in terms of galleries and theaters. Art can be found in even the most mundane of activities. Art is life. Life is art. All of this is true.

However, recently, I mentioned my participation in the Tour de Fleece to a friend. The response I got was, “yarn people are funny.” Yup, we’re funny folks. We joke. We laugh. Some of us have tattoos. Some of us wear nothing but fair isle sweaters. Some of us are exactly what you think of when you think of “yarnies.” Some of us are not. Most people think of knitting and spinning in terms of a hobby. It’s a “craft.” What a cute word. It just brings to mind all those little macaroni projects and ashtrays you made out of clay when you were a kid, right? It makes you think of gaudy tie dye. It makes you think back to those days of shrinkie dinks. Nothing sets off the good old childhood memories like doing a “craft.”

However, “crafts” are just as often about creative expression and art as are musical compositions and paintings. In thinking about creating a yarn, for example, you want to think about weight, texture, color. You want to take into account how it will work up, depending on how you plan to use it. There’s a compositional factor to it that most people do not think about.

In any art, the artist first starts with the essentials. In music, it’s notes. In painting, it’s, well, paint. In writing, it’s words. All of these are the basic essentials of the art. In spinning, the spinner begins with fiber. Fiber is no different an essential tool than are paints or music notes or words. All of these are the foundations of an art.

The artist, regardless of medium, takes a material, a foundational essential, and crafts it. She looks at her words, if she’s a writer, or her paints, if she’s a visual artist, or the keyboard of a piano, if she’s a musician. A fiber artist looks at fiber. She looks at texture. She looks at color. She looks at the material. Is it wool? Alpaca? Mohair? Milk fiber? Bamboo? These are the fiber artist’s foundational essentials. They are the paints on her canvas. They are the words on her page. She carefully decides what type of fiber and how colors will mix together. She takes her inspiration from her life, from the world around her, from other arts.

During this year’s Tour de Fleece (for those who don’t know during the Tour de France, spinners created challenges and spun every day that the cyclists cycled), the challenge for me was to spin a representation of an album cover. Of the albums available, one spoke to me loud and clear.

Not only do I love The Clash, but Little Man loves them, too. When I think back to the last few months, I think about how my whole world changed in a milisecond. Then I think about the day where, after crying for about five hours straight, I sat little man in his bouncy chair, turned up The Clash and watched him wiggle around to the music. It is a moment that I will never forget. When the challenge to interpret this album cover as yarn was presented, I couldn’t help it. Inspired by my life and by art, I sat down to work through how I would do this.

First, I had to find fiber. Fiber, as the basis of the art, would be most necessary. The fiber had to be “just right.” The color had to be “just right.” After scouring Etsy for several hours, I found these two batts:

They don’t look like much, do they? Big, poofy, bundles of fiber. Organic wool, for what it’s worth. Ok, so the pink was actually titled “Purple,”  but there seemed to be enough of the color I had in my head to make what I envisioned. Plus? Well, they were on sale, and cash was tight.

Next, I had to decide how I wanted to work with these. Was I going to single ply? Double ply? Triple ply? How would I incorporate the whites and grays and blacks in the album cover? At first, I thought a ply of green, a ply of pink and a ply of white. Then, after more thought and some discussion, that did not seem to create the interpretation in my head. If I did that, the pink and green would smoosh together, and the yarn would turn into some scary mush version of, well, blech. While rummaging through the bookstore, I came across Intertwined: The Art of Handspun Yarns, Modern Patterns and Creative Spinning. In it, I found the inspiration for which I was searching.

I decided that an art yarn was the goal. No, not a painted yarn. Not a yarn glued to paper. A yarn that was, in itself, an art. I conceived a yarn that would look like a boucle. A yarn that had stripes of green and pink, with silver running through it and black beads spun into it. I set to the task.

I found that there was a greater amount of purple than I originally thought. I also noticed, as I spun my single ply, that pink and green? They do not mix together very well. Who’d have thunk? With all those prepsters out there mixing the colors, you’d have thought they’d look perfect spun together. Mmmm…not so much. It was then that I conceived my goal. The pink and green would be joined by purple “bridges”, much like the chorus of a song joins the verses.I picked through the dense batt of fiber. I painstakingly pulled out the purple from the midst of the pink. I set aside the different colors.

The single ply looked like this on my wheel:

Still, the process was far from over. I needed beads and a silver thread. I found a bead stringing thread, but there was not enough available for what I thought I needed.  I thought about embroidery thread, but that did not seem right. It was too thick. It was too little in a skein of it, making it expensive. It just wasn’t…right. I looked through the store.  I found a sparkly crochet thread – white with silver plied into it. Perfect. I looked for beads. The first ones would not fit on the crochet thread.  I found the perfect beads, but again, they were not going to fit on the thread. I settle for glass beads which, in the end, plied into the yarn well, probably better than my more asymmetrical “perfect” beads.

I set to the task of stringing the beads onto the crochet thread. I put enough beads for there to be approximately one bead per yard. I wanted the beads to be obvious but not overwhelming to the yarn itself.

I set up a homemade lazy kate:

I wanted to ply a boucle. I wanted the plied fiber to puff out to mimic the curves and lack of focus in the album cover. I wanted the colors to be prominent with enough beading to hint at the grays and blacks in picture. I wanted to intepret not just the colors, but I wanted to try to mimic the lines of the photograph and energy presented in the image.

I started to ply:

Finally, I finished the plying. I set the twist in warm water. I left it to dry. I woke up to find it looking like this:

Exactly as I had envisioned it. The yarn is not evenly plied. Then again, the image isn’t evenly focused. The yarn’s colors move from one to the next. They create a sense of motion within boundaries. They give a sense of the music, as well as the cover. The white and silver running through the second ply create a structure to the yarn, similar to the boundaries of the cover and the structure of the lettering, while also mimicking the black and white in the album cover. The black beads give pause here and there throughout the yarn at irregular intervals, creating a sense of the gray by using the black intermittently. The yarn’s texture is as I originally imagined it in my head. The colors, in the end, worked well within the construct of the interpretation, although they are not as I originally conceived the idea.

This is not painted macaroni. This is hours of work and thought. This is more than a hobby. To create one must love the creation. To imagine, one must have the imagination. The is the opposite of war. This is true creation from the bare esentials, from the basic fiber to the finished product. This is art. It begins with a thought, with an inspiration. It brings together different textures, colors, and materials. It uses these different materials to craft, not as a “craft”. It is creation.

‘Tis a Gift

‘Tis a gift to be simple. It is. For the last ten years, vacations have been less a vacation and more of an adventure. Trips to Ireland, Europe, various states in the US, and Canada were exotic and activity filled. Sights were seen. Alcohol was drunk. The joy came not just from spending time together but from seeing new and exiting things. Experiences relied less upon people than upon place. This is not to say, of course, that going with someone other than Mr. Adventure would have been as fun. This is to say that our idea of a getaway was to go away and do new and exciting things.

This year, however, I sit here:

I’m in the right chair, typing. Mr. A is in the left chair reading. The sun has slowly descended below the horizon. The birds caw, the crickets chirp. The evening is one of solitude and a chorus of nature. And, incidentally, I am not a nature girl. I’m a city girl. In fact? Too many trees in one place kind of freak me out a bit. Don’t ask. Really. You don’t want to know. I fear the big tree versus people coup bound to happen someday. Go ahead and laugh. You’ll be sorry one day. Yup.

Instead of views of lights and streets, instead of meeting new people, I’m sitting here staring at this:

And, what might just be my dream vacation house someday

Life has changed. Sitting here, I’m drinking a glass of wine from a plastic cup. I am reminded of where I have been and where I am going. The plastic cup is the typical kegger cup from college. The wine? A $40 bottle of chardonnay. I am no longer drinking something cheap. However, I am drinking unpretentiously. I am no longer a child drinking in life as fast as possible to get drunk on it. I am an adult sipping from life and sipping from, yeah, a red plastic cup. Sipping slowly to savor the flavor of the wine and the life I’m living.  Life today is different from life last year or a life imagined.

This vacation is one filled with wonderment. Not my own wonderment, but that of my son. Everything is new to him. He dips his toes in the water.  He giggles. He figures out that he can thrust his feet into the water causing a splash and ploink sound. He laughs.

He watches metal tongs open and close and his full bellied laugh is that of his father. Whole. Hearty. Joyful. There is so much to see and do. He wants to take it all in. He won’t, of course, sleep. If he slept, well, the whole world might stop turning. Or, conversely, the whole world might explode into a a bright shining ball of circus fun that he would miss out on. Sleep, apparently, is for those suckers who long to remain in darkness.

Instead of filling the day with places to see, we are filling it with people to see. We watch our son – discovering with joy the world around him. We watch each other. We smile small private smiles of contentment and love at one another, when we think the other person doesn’t see. Watching each other parent and enjoy being a parent is a thrill in itself.

Activity abounds. Mr. Monkeyman has to keep moving, keep walking, keep talking.

A few years ago, Mr. A and I went to Ireland. In looking at the castles and in visiting Newgrange, we stared in awe at what people hundreds and thousands of years before us could create. In looking at our son, we stare in awe at what we created. This tiny life – with all of its moods and quirks – is both a part of each of us and its own little tiny self. We created this, but we did not build it. He builds himself day by day.

Parenting is difficult. In a good marriage, where the two people want to be the same type of parent and want to impart the same types of lessons, it can be an amazing thing. It can bring two people closer together in ways not previously understood. In a bad marriage, or in a marriage where the two people want different things for their child, it can bring out the worst in the relationship. Watching Mr. A with Mr. Monkeyman reinforces the bond we had before. Mr. Monkeyman helps to build us. He is an architect of life, of strength, and of the the psyche – particularly in his adamant refusal to sleep or do something quiet. He strengthens physically and mentally. It’s like the combination of Godzilla, Sudoko, and an abacus.

This vacation is not about doing. This vacation is not about visiting. This vacation is about the simple things in life. Trying to calm a screaming, overtired beastie. Trying to find things that make a baby smile. Waiting for those moments when the child looks at you with that full and complete love and adoration. Those are the simple things in life. Indeed, ’tis a gift to be simple. ‘Tis the greatest gift of all.

The Identity of The Law

Over the past week, the name Sonia Sotomayor has begun to gain infamy. Watching her acceptance of the nomination, Sotomayor is likeable. Her ability to save baseball in fifteen minutes during the baseball strike of in 1995 wins her major points. Listening to her speech, she comes across as humbled while proud. She should be proud. She has achieved that about which hundreds, if not thousands, of law students nationwide dream. She stands on the precipice of history – a woman about to be confirmed to the highest court of the nation. Not just a woman, but a Latina woman. She comes from a humble background in the South Bronx. She admits that she not only worked hard but was given great opportunity. She is about to be a woman with great power.

However, to quote the Spiderman comic, “with great power comes great responsibility.” Sotomayor is about to embark upon a position of great power. Presently, the majority of pundits find themselves concerned about Sotomayor’s statement in a speech at the University of California at Berkely School of Law’s graduation in 2001 that “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experience would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.” Yes, a white man making the same statement would be strung up by the media. Yes, her statement has a whiff of prejudice. Yes, this is a statement that lends itself to identity politics. All of this is true.

The fear behind identity politics is that a person will look at the individuals involved and empathize with them. Empathy does not have a viable place within the law. The law stands as the last bastion of logic and reason, removed from the populace and the politics, in our country. Individuals do bring with them, however, their individual experiences. Scalia brings with him, for example, his faith. However, the problem with looking at the individuals is that feelings can overwhelm good judgment. Think, for a moment, about a teacher. A teacher must be blind to his/her likes and dislikes about a student. A teacher cannot pass a student who does not meet objectives simply because the student is likeable and tries hard. That only ends up creating great disappointment for that student in the long run. A teacher cannot fail a student simply because the student is an obnoxious brat. The student’s work is the student’s merit. Yes, a student may have problems in his/her life that get in the way of school. However, when a student makes no attempt to hand in assignments at all, that person cannot be passed simply because the teacher “feels bad for the kid’s troubles.” In the long run, that does more harm to the student than failing the student would do. The same is true with the law.

Sympathy is good to feel. Sympathy makes people human. Sympathy is exactly the quality that a good judge needs in order to be a humane person within a profession that often leaves things cold. Sympathy allows for feelings to exist. Feelings, in and of themselves, are not bad within the context of the law. Empathy, however, indicates that the person identifies with the other. Not only does the empathetic person note that there are feelings, the empathetic person feels the same as the other individual. Empathy, within the context of the law, can be dangerous.

Identity politics often allows empathy, not sympathy, to weigh greater than justice. What happens to a single plaintiff or defendant, based on the judge’s feelings about that individual, can color the outcome. At a trial court level, looking at the family history of a defendant in a criminal trial can allow for justice. At the Supreme Court level, looking only at the individual and not at the law and the greater scope of the law’s reach can create “bad law.” George Will writes, “Perhaps Sotomayor subscribes to the Thurgood Marshall doctrine: “You do what you think is right and let the law catch up” (quoted in the Stanford Law Review, summer 1992). Does she think the figure of Justice should lift her blindfold, an emblem of impartiality, and be partial to certain categories of persons?” Will is, at least partially, correct. At the Supreme Court level, the judges must be blind to many things. Their personal experiences will color their interpretations. However, these interpretations have a further ranging impact. Think about it like a Choose Your Own Adventure Book. These books had multiple outcomes, much like the law wherein different interpretations can lead to different rulings. Choosing the ending that the reader wants and working backwards defeats the purpose of making the decisions throughout the book. Making the decision when asked, as the reader goes through the book, creates the outcome based on logic and reason, if that reader thinks about the potential ramifications of those decisions. The law should neither discriminate against nor discriminate for individuals of a particular identity.

True, an individual’s experiences will always color that person’s decisions.  Those in favor of identity politics, such as Leonard Pitts, Jr., may argue that “That a point so blazingly obvious even needs making speaks to the myopia afflicting many white people when the subject is race (and men when the subject is gender). It is a stark illustration of white and male privilege: in this case, the privilege of questioning the role someone’s identity plays in their promotion only when that identity diverges from the perceived norm, i.e., yours.” As a woman, I resent being told that men cannot understand gender. True, a man will never have to make the decision to have an abortion or will never have had his breasts stared at lecherously in the workplace. However, in that same way, a woman will never fear what she says being taken incorrectly and will never have to be told that while she scored well on a test she studied for her white maleness disqualifies her from being given a promotion, such as in the case of the New Haven firefighters.  Not all women feel the same about abortion. Not all men feel the same about watching their words in the workplace. To argue that one woman is the “voice” of a gender or an ethnicity is to diminish that gender or ethnicity’s diversity in and of itself.  Sotomayor will bring – and “will” is the appropriate word since her confirmation, barring any major dancing skeletons in her closet, is highly likely – she will bring a great deal of experience, both personal and professional, with her. The concern should be less her identity politics, than her previous rulings.

Of the six decsisions from the 2nd Circuit that have been reviewed by the Supreme Court. This is where the focus on Sotomayor should focus. Of the six decisions reviewed, four have been overturned and one was upheld but the reasoning was overruled. Of those, three of the overturned cases were more than 5-4 decisions and the overruled reasoning was a unanimous rout. These overrulings were more than just a “conservative” versus “liberal” fight, as evidenced by them being greater than the liberal-conservative 5-4 split vote. These were rulings that were based on the merits of Sotomayor’s decisions and the reasoning that she used. Most concerning should be the decision in which her outcome was upheld, but her reasoning was considered unanimously flawed. How rare for this Supreme Court to agree on something wholeheartedly. In fact, “[i]n 2006, Sotomayor upheld a lower tax court ruling that certain types of fees paid by a trust are only partly tax deductable. The Supreme Court upheld Sotomayor’s decision but unanimously rejected the reasoning she adopted, saying that her approach “flies in the face of the statutory language.” Knight vs. Commissioner, 467 F.3d 149 (2006) Unfortunately, tax deduction of fees paid by a trust are not sexy. In fact, other than those people well-versed in tax law, most people probably neither care nor understand the holding. The problem, however, is that not only did the court unanimously decide that Sotomayor’s reasoning was faulty, but it stated in writing that it “flies in the face of the statutory language.” Sotomayor, essentially, created law that fit her personal beliefs while ignoring the letter and/or spirit of the statute she reviewed. Indeed, for an individual that Americans are about to entrust with one of the greatest responsibilities a citizen can hold, this should be the most concerning of all the cases presented. Her outcome was not wrong. Her manner of determining it was.

The strength of a justice lies not in who that person is. The strength of a judge, at any level, lies in that individual’s ability to logically apply facts and law. The personal influences that help determine that logic will always exist. However, when a person appears to try to not just fit the law to her desired outcome but determines that the law upon which she is basing her decision is unnecessary, that creates faulty logic. This faulty logic should be looked at closely. It is this particular case that should be discussed in hearings. Sotomayor’s identity as a Latino woman is a non-issue. Her ability to determine rules of law based on both the letter and the spirit – regardless of her philosophy of that spirit – are at issue. Someone whose reasoning about a minor case is considered so faulty should be scrutinized. Her identity should not create the law. However, more importantly, the law should not rely on a person who may define her logic only by her identity. Logic, particularly at this level, needs to remain clean. This does not mean that it should be entirely removed from one’s experiences. It means that while experiences should inform, they should not control. Experiences do give greater depth to a judge’s ability to reach logical and well-reasoned rulings. However, when a judge identifies not as a judge but as something else, that logic and reasoning becomes tainted. The identity of a judge should be neither race nor gender. It should be neither sexuality nor religion. The identity of a judge should be the law.

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful Boy

My dearest, loving, baby boy,

A few days ago, I sang to you what I could remember of the Lennon song “Beautiful Boy.” You smiled. You giggled. My singing did not, for once, scare you. I know, it’s comically bad. Someday? You will mock me the way I mocked my own mother. Payback, is indeed, a … well, that’s not for your ears or eyes.

Today, my son, my beautiful, amazing, glorious, wonderful son, you are twelve weeks old. In five days, you will be one fiscal quarter of age. Every moment of my day is filled with you. You are the air I breathe. You are the light that guides my days. You are the rain on my parade when you scream, nonstop, for no real reason. A few weeks ago, during one of these fits, I turned to you and said, “Don’t be such a baby!” Then I realized, umm, you are a baby. It is so difficult for me to remember sometimes how young you are. I feel as though in some ways my life started with you and that I have been around only as long as you.

You can hold up your head on your own.

Unless you’re half asleep, in the middle of the night, falling asleep on your bottle. Then? I forget that you don’t want to or can’t hold your head up. When I go to burp you, your head flops forward. You have nailed your head on my wrist more times than I can count. Insanity, they say, is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. For me? It’s sleep deprivation.

You were sleeping beautifully, up until this week. Then? You started waking up every five hours or less. Mommy will always, no matter what, love you. However, she likes you an awful lot more when you sleep more. I promise, I will always come to you when you need me. If you could choose to need me after I’ve gotten more sleep? I’ll come faster because I’ll be able to wake up better. I cross my heart and kiss my elbow.

You have rolled over, but it seems you only do it when you want to do it. You lie on your back and talk to the toys that hang from the arches over your mat. You get angry with Mr. Pineapple when he doesn’t talk back to you.

Someday you will understand that, well, he’s actually an inanimate object. At least, I hope someday you realize that. You love being in the big swing and having me kiss your toes when you swing close to me. You also seem to enjoy kicking me in the face and punching me in the nose. I hope that these trends do not continue.

You giggle and smile in response to me now. If you’re starting to get into a fit, there are times when I can work you out of it simply by smiling at you. You have also decided that you want to take your bottles in repose position in your carseat swing. While I understand that both of these are potentially sweet? They are also making me wonder if my face will freeze in the ghoulish over-exagerated smile while I slowly become a hunchback from leaning over your swing. However, I know that the more you eat, the stronger and bigger you will be someday. My physical beauty, or lackthereof, is decidedly less important. Until I scare your friends when you’re a toddler. Then you’ll be sorry when they won’t come to your house to play. Think about that carefully before continuing in this vein.

You recognize me now. You track me when you hear my voice. You follow my every move. Today, when you were on your play mat and I took a moment to sit in my chair next to it, you arched your back and leaned on your head to look behind you to find me. It was super cute, minus my fear that you would break your neck. Still, it was super cute. However, you need to learn that your daddy loves you. He loves to hold you and kiss you. He loves to tickle you and play with you. Also? He loves to feed you. You need to trust your daddy to take care of you. He can feed you just fine. At night when he gives you your bottle? Please drink it. You make him feel bad when you don’t seem to trust him. Also, you make me more tired. I’m a lot more fun of a mommy when I’m not so tired I think about sitting on the tub floor to take my shower because standing up seems like too much of an effort. Believe me, I’m a WAY nice person, when you let daddy take some time with you and let me relax for ten minutes. I’m not even asking for hours. Just minutes. Really.

Your daddy is the very best daddy. Watching him with you makes me fall in love with him all over again. Some day, you will play catch with him and not want me around. Someday, I will be unnecessary to your happiness. I fear that day because it will break my heart. I also look forward to that day because I know that you will love your daddy and want to be just like him. I know that you will grow up to be an amazing man like him, the kind of man that any woman would be proud to call her son. You will be loving and generous and kind and thoughtful. You will grow up to be the best of your daddy and I. I can’t wait to see that day, yet I despair that day because it means you will not need me or want me anymore.  I hope that you will always be confident to tell both of us that you love us. I hope that we will be able to instill in you a lack of fear of your emotions. I hope that someday you will call to say hello and, when you say good-bye, sign off with, “I love you mom.”

You love your puppies. You smile at them and look for them.

You let them kiss you and walk around you when you’re playing on the floor.

They love you, too. They don’t mind when you touch them. Max doesn’t mind when you kick him or punch him in the face. Then again, since he doesn’t seem to understand that those actions are a sign of displeasure? He probably deserves what he gets. You giggle when you touch them. You jump when you hear a certain bark. You know the difference between the “bark at nothing” bark and the “bark because daddy is home” bark. You ignore the first one but wake up for the second. You are a smart baby.

You are growing into a little man. You are not the little human blob anymore. You are rapidly gaining a personality. You are independent. You love making the lights work on your bouncy chair but get mad when it goes continuously and isn’t of your own doing. You love trying to “walk” across the house but hate when you have to sit still. You love making the toys on your mat jingle and move but hate when you can’t figure out how to do it or when you’re just to small to make something work. You tell us what you want by screaming your face off when you don’t like something, and you tell us what you like by giggling with your daddy’s full bellied joyous laugh.

You discovered Elmo this week, thanks to teh internetz. You loved Elmo’s Song. You watched it and giggled. You danced on my lap. You calmed down during “cranky time”, that hour before bed when you’re tired and getting hungry but we’re not quite ready for you to sleep. Let’s face it, if you sleep at 6:30pm? You’re going to be up at 4am. Really? That’s the middle of the night. Mommy loves you, but there are some things that are always unacceptable. Waking up at 4am falls into the “always unacceptable” category. Sorry kiddo. I also figured out that you love Elmo because Elmo sounds like mommy. While that is super cute, I can’t lie – it’s also super depressing. Mommy is not a muppet. Although, I could probably make a fortune dressing up in a hollowed out giant stuffed Elmo (yes, I’m that tiny…sort of) at kids’ parties. I’m glad you love me. Try not to love Elmo because he reminds you of me. That is kind of depressing.

I love you little man. I love you with every breath in my body. Mothering you is a contradiction. I want to be the very best mommy, but I do not want to only be a mommy. I look forward to your waking up in the morning, but I look forward to when you go to bed at night. I look forward to when you go to bed at night, but, an hour later, I find myself blogging about you and looking at your videos and your photos and waiting for the morning when I get to see your little gummy smile again. I look forward to date nights, alone, with your daddy, but I end up talking mostly about you. I want to sleep through the night, but I also love seeing you in the middle of the night to feed you and have you snuggle me. I want you to be an independent little man, but I want to hold you tight and never let you go. I want you to sleep in your crib and self-soothe, but I want to take “snuggle naps” together on the couch because I love feeling the weight of you on top of me and your warmth against my body.

You, my beautiful boy, are everything that makes my life complete. I cannot imagine my life without you. I cannot imagine that I feared your coming. I cannot imagine, beautiful boy, the person I was before you. You, my beautiful boy, are the alpha and the omega of my life, and yes, someday I will tell you what those words mean. You, my beautiful boy, are the best parts of your daddy and mommy. You, my beautiful boy, are the most amazing person I know (ok, along with your daddy). You, my beautiful boy, are my special love, myself, my best me. You, my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy make me the very best me that I can be.  I will never be able to thank you enough for that.