Month two has been quite eventful, I must say. The proof is in this incredibly long letter. So far (and while knocking on every wooden surface around), you really are a remarkably good baby. This month brought us more visitors than we would have ever wanted or liked, and although you are quite sensitive, you were quite a trooper. Your sensitivity to strangers holding/feeding/burping/kissing/poking you is the most obvious when they finally go away, and your sweetness and patience is truly revealed in the form of predictable naps in your crib, and long stretches of sleep at night. It’s almost as if their departure allows you to recalibrate and return back to your mogwai state after being an exhausting gremlin.
We survived the six week growth spurt (where we almost enrolled you in anger management classes right then and there) by rocking and dancing with you in the evenings, with the light classical Comcast station singing in the background. Nothing quite calms you like Vivaldi, apparently. Your mother and I talked about all of my days in high school where I played the trumpet in countless symphonies, orchestras, jazz bands, and one opera. RR, if you don’t want to play the trumpet, that’s totally cool by me.
The things you have found thus far include, but are not limited to, your smile, your hands, your fist (for chewing), your toes (for wiggling and gazing), your voice (for cooing) your floppy cuddle monkey blanket (for cuddling… duh), and your enjoyment of a few Little Miss and Little Mr. books. We don’t prevent you from watching the TV, but we don’t put it on anything specifically for you, either. The only thing we watch that you show any interest in is Wipeout, and honestly, I don’t blame you – that shit is funny.
When you’re not eating, sleeping, going for a walk in The Supreme, being licked by the dog, or being rocked, you like to hang out in your pack ‘n play, staring up at a series of hanging items we refer to as your danglies. You know. Cause they dangle? Your pack ‘n play is simple and effective, but came with this crappy set of boring brown elephants. Snoozefest, right? So we’ve been experimenting with other dangling things we can hang above it that tinkle and make you l.o.l. when they sway after we knock them. Yes, RR, we have been demoted to dangly-hitting mamas if we sit you in there while trying to get some housework done. Vacuum, vacuum, hit the danglies. I’m sure they make non-human contraptions to do this, but we chose to keep our cable subscription, so this is the price we pay. Also, I’m sure they make playthings that people put on the ground that do this, but have you met your dog? Right.
You still hate your swing. Thanks, RR. You hate it when it swings front to back, side to side, any which way. You don’t care that it can vibrate, sing songs, play my mp3 player, or create world peace. You’ve come around to liking (or tolerating?) pants and socks, though, which helps my case to keep our house frigid cold since my hot flash hormones haven’t been the same since you burrowed yourself into my uterine wall. You love your Soothie Pacifier and tend to spit it out (patooey!) whenever you’re done with it, which is just long enough to be soothed. Yes, we call it a pacifier – four syllables and all. The dog also loves it, often stealing it and leaving it on his bed or in his stash or toys. Don’t worry, we sterilize it. Most of the time. He also likes to put his bone in your bumbo or on your bouncy seat. Don’t worry, we move it before we set you down. Most of the time.
We’ve found that going out to eat with you in an enclosed restaurant is not worth the stress. There’s no food item I can think of worth the pit of doom in my stomach that I get worrying that you’ll wake up and scream “THEY’RE KILLING ME! HELP! HELP!” leaving one of us to eat alone. Seriously. We’ll just carry something out if we’re that desperate not too cook. What good is there going out to eat if you can’t enjoy the meal? Plus, then we’re those people. Rest assured, we’ll teach you dining manners when you’re old enough to learn them.
Speaking of cooking, your mother and I eat in shifts. Surprise surprise. The good thing is, though, is that your mom likes to eat things while they are flaming hot, and I prefer my food to be lukewarm. See? We’re made for each other. These preferences allow me to hold/rock/soothe/feed you while she burns the roof of her mouth off, and then I can eat my room temperature dinner. De-licious. Speaking of eating, I’m still pumping whatever tiny supply I have for you once/twice a day, and we either supplement it into one of your bottles, or you eat it as a snack. Don’t worry, I have my evening beer after I pump. Most of the time.
RR – despite people’s curiosities, we don’t care what you’ll call us. You can call us mom, mama, mommy, whatever you like. No one’s the bobo, or the baba, or the meemoo, or the daddy, or the dado, or the papa. We’re both your mom. You can tell all those people so desperate to know how you’ll tell us apart to shove it.
Two notable instances from this past month, and then I’ll let you carry on: First, one morning, your mama let me sleep in a few hours, and I awoke to the smell of coffee and breakfast cooking in the kitchen. RR, you have to understand that there’s really no way to tell which mornings this happens – they are far from frequent or planned, but that’s what makes them special. I wandered out to to kitchen to find you in your bouncy seat, sitting in the open doorway leading to the back deck, with your mom shredding potatoes for hash browns. There’s nothing like waking up to breakfast cooking and a happy baby. Second was just last weekend, when your mother brought you back into the bedroom after your morning bottle and you laid in between us and napped for about an hour. I could only nap for about 15 minutes, and spent the last 45 gazing at your perfect sweet face. You and your mama matched in your white t-shirts and while I hoped I had a camera, I’m actually glad I didn’t.