Is it considered bad mommy practice to start a blog post with an expletive? Oh well. One Year! FUCKING ONE YEAR!
I feel like there is no way that one whole year could have passed since your birth and yet…. everything you’ve done, all of your changes, have happened in just this one year. Time is in fact relative.
You have grown from squishy blob to little man and this month has been a testament to you becoming a “you.”
Your arms must be tired from all of the pointing and grunting you do everyday. “Take me to the pictures of the animals in my room.” “Take me to the books” “Take me to see your wedding photos,” you demand.
You have new nicknames after months of consistency. They honor the little boy that you are becoming. We call you Disast-a-roo. We call you Trouble Machine. We call you Big Walker.
You understand words now. You will clap on command. You know who your puppy is (a big red Clifford dog that you make out with most mornings). You know when I am saying “No,” I can tell because it makes you laugh and laugh and laugh. You squeal with glee when I mention a bath or puppies or milk (in that last case the squeals are often followed by somewhat embarrassing attempts by you to get the girls out ASAP).
You wake up with a plan. You need to check out everything. You need to take the toys out of the toy box. You need to bang the cupboards. You need to pull the leaves off of the plants and empty the diaper bag and take your books off of their shelf. You are everywhere. You are a very busy baby. Or, I guess, a very busy toddler.
Also: You toddle. Starting on October 29th you began taking a few quick drunk stumbles from your perch against the coffee table to my arms. You quickly took so many first falls that for weeks you refused to take any more steps. But by Thanksgiving your nerve was back and you were suddenly wobbling 5-10 steps back and forth between your dad and I. You’re still clinging to the furniture but, when properly motivated, you’ll chance a stroll.
You are easily excited and unable to contain your glee. When you see your baby doll or when I offer you a graham cracker you prance about on little dance-y feet, the joy taking over your legs.
You love books. Or, perhaps, you love turning pages. Your favorites are Moo, Where’s Spot and (a forever favorite) Carry Me. These are good stories... but they have become a bit tired around our house. Dad and I try to introduce you to new options with limited success.
You have become a big giver of kisses. I get a few. Dad occasionally gets one. But most of your smoochies are for the characters in your books. The kitties in Good Night Moon have been bathed in spit. The other babies in Carry Me are often greeted with a squeal and an open mouthed kiss (your dad thinks you have a thing for a certain brown little girl who appears being carried in a sling). I once caught you making out with the picture of a motorcycle.
You still don’t have any words to say beyond mama and dada but even without official words you are quite a talker. You argue and complain when you don’t get your way. You squeal and squeak when you spot doggies on our walks. You’ve started crying to show anger and frustration rather than just to express your needs. When I won’t let you climb stairs or if I refuse to sit down and read a book you scream and wail letting me know exactly how big of a jerk your mom is.
Two lesser milestones were also met this month. Firstly, you broke the screen on my iPhone. This is a marker in the lives of all modern Brooklyn babies and I like to brag on the playground that you managed it before one year. The other moms are jealous; I can tell. Slightly more embarrassing and much more hilarious, one night, naked before bed, you reached down between your legs, hunched your little back over as far as it would go and tried (over and over again) to put your penis in your mouth. No amount of tugging or contorting proved successful. Welcome to the disappointment of being male. Your dad shed a few tears for you (in between the guffaws).
This year has been so different than I imagined and better than I had hoped. You are an easy, happy, lovable guy; exactly the kind of baby who tricks you into having another (we shall not be fooled so easily!). Your dad and I love being three. We love having you as the center of our family. Happy birthday my little Casperoo.