Have Officially Kept Baby Alive Longer Than Many Houseplants

One year ago today, I had a baby.

I also pooped in front of strangers and got stitches in my hoo-ha, but let's focus on the good, shall we?

A few posts ago I referred wanting to write about how hard, and sometimes how unfair it is to be the mama. I do want to write about that, because I wish someone had given me the heads-up in those early months. Or even in the not-so-early months, when I was still feeling overwhelmed, and feeling crazy for feeling overwhelmed.

But right now? As I sit, almost exactly to-the-minute one year after he was born? I am swamped with a contentment that I could not imagine until recently. I'm getting the hang of this baby-having thing--not as quickly as I would have liked or hoped or thought, but I'm finally feeling like I'm sort-of, almost, pretty much beginning to integrate this giant thing into my little life.

So please indulge me a moment while I write down what my baby, my sweet burly brute of a boy, is like right now, one year from the day he came into this world.

Although his overall growth seems to have slowed (and it's a good thing, too, for if he'd continued on a linear path with his expansion, we'd have to annex the neighbor's house soon), he still has these fat little hands. And yet, quite often his gestures are so delicate--a point here, a graceful pincer grasp here--which never fails to make me giggle, these meaty hands making fey gestures.

He's learning what words mean, people. Like, if you ask "Where are your toes?" he'll point to them (I don't know why, but this KILLS me). If you say "Hello," he puts his hand (and whatever he's holding in said hand, including a PB&J sandwich) up to his ear like a phone. He waves "hi" and "bye" when cued. And he knows "Where's Dada?" If, however, you ask, "Where's Mama?" he points to his toes. Or a can of soup. Or Dad. Or the dog.

He has four sharp little teeth, which has added a certain amount of...intrigue to our nursing sessions. He's getting better about not biting while nursing, but it's no guarantee, which means that every so often I'm startled by the fiery pinch of baby fangs. I try to remain calm, say, "no bite," and just take him off the boob, but when it happens several times in a row, I will admit to setting him down firmly (gently, but ever-so-motherfucking-firmly) while I cross my arms in front of my chest mutter darkly about weaning. He also has taken to biting when frustrated, so my tiny bruises are back, on my neck and upper arms. He may be part vampire bat. Also? Purely cosmetically, I have to point out: his two lower teeth are small and straight and right to each other and look like cute baby teeth. His upper teeth seem huge and crooked and, well...when viewed from an upward angle, he looks like a hillbilly baby. Like his first word will be, "Yup." It's distressing.

When eating, Tankbaby uses his first finger and thumb to delicately select food, as mentioned above. Lately, he's been wanting to see the plate of small bites and to choose the food himself, so MOTH holds the little plate like a waiter at a black-tie event, while Tank claps his hands together, puts one finger in his mouth and tilts his head coyly to the side, as if to say, "Well, I really shouldn't...it goes right to my thighs...but, yes, I do think another bite of waffle would be divine!"

He still only has approximately 12 hairs, but now three of them have conspired to stand up in the world's most pathetic cowlick. My dad sent a birthday package that included a tiny yellow Charlie Brown shirt (yellow with that black zig-zag stripe near the bottom), and I can't wait to put Tank in it. Then maybe I'll invite him to kick a football that I'll yank away at the last minute.

He's been giggling for a while, but now we're starting to get great big belly laughs, and they're making up for every bad thing that has ever happened. I would set myself on fire to hear him laugh like this. (Luckily, so far, all it's required is a rousing game of Zoom Close To Baby's Face With Sound Effects or maybe Do The Tina Turner Dance [aka Shake a Tail Feather].)

He's been working on drinking out of a straw (we've skipped the sippy cup stage, as the current thinking in occupational therapy land is that it's more functional to learn to use a straw, plus it builds oral motor strength--hi, I'm an early childhood development geek). He'll clamp his mouth down and furrow his little brow in concentration as his sips, and about 80% of the time he'll get too much and will cough wetly while his eyes water, and, still choking, he reaches for the cup again. I'm trying to teach him to gasp, "Smooth," as he does so.

I could go on, about how he does this funny "Cheese it! It's the cops!" take when I surprise him while he's crawling. Or how MOTH, after getting pants over Tank's feet, pulls him to a stand and has him assume the position against a wall so that MOTH can pull the pants up, all the while asking Tank to empty his pockets and keep his eyes forward, sir. But it's getting late and y'all have indulged me enough.

Happy Birthday, baby boy. Thanks for sticking with me.

Also? STOP WITH THE GODDAMNED BITING.

Love, Mama