Dear Parks,

I'm obviously going to stop promising to write more often as your very presence in this house demands that I pay more attention to you than the rambling and often incoherent thoughts that I have about you, me, or your dad. It’s been two months without a peep out of me (mostly because I’m dealing with your peeps). But, that’s really no excuse. I will admit that I find it difficult to explain how your dad and I are handling the often confusing reality of waking up with a ten and a half month old that farts on cue and then claps and giggles afterwards. I am convinced this has a lot more to do with karma for some of my previous transgressions in life than your actual emerging personality. Although if this IS your actual emerging personality, me and you, kid, are going to get along just fine. Waking up and having to ask your dad if that sound I heard was him or you amuses me greatly. And, at 6:00am…amusing is good.

In fact, you get funnier every single day. It’s amazing to me this little person you’ve turned into in the past two months. Even though I think I say that every single month. It’s totally true EVERY SINGLE TIME. You learn things so quickly it just astounds me. It scares me a little and it makes it harder to let you be away from me for extended periods of time. I never thought it would actually get more difficult to leave you behind on mornings when I have to run off to work but it definitely has. I’m usually scared that by the time I see you in the afternoon you will be walking perfectly in high heels, smoking cigarettes, and espousing the ever-endearing phrase, “WHAT. EVER. MOM.” Because that’s how fast all of this all seems to be going.

(No doubt when you are two and absolutely horrible I will wonder why it all isn’t going FASTER. But, that’s your mom, I’m never happy and I always assume the worst. I was just having a conversation with your cousin Joy the other day about how I assume that every day is the day that I will find out that you have CANCER. Or, that I do. Or, that your father does. But that’s why they make medication.)

I find myself more torn each and every. It’s not just that you seem to have gotten over that very annoying “baby” thing of crying for no reason-although that’s rocked as well. It’s just that you’re absolutely cool as hell. Its how you sit up, point at Jesus and scream, “Kit TAY” and it sounds just like “Nell” saying “Tay in da winn”. You’ll have to forgive Mama for that comparison, but the stomach virus I had last week facilitated a new watching of “Nell”. And, let me tell you, I don’t know if I was delirious from all the trying NOT to vomit, but “Nell” made a hell of a lot more sense to me at this age. It also cleared up a lot of language acquisition questions I had concerning you and why it is you pick up a toy, reach out as if to hand it to me, and say “Mon deui.” It’s because you are speaking French taught to you by an imaginary hearing-impaired au pair your father and I haven’t hired.

Our lives have evolved into a constant re-assessment of how far from the floor breakable things in the house should be placed. This happens every single week. Sometimes your dad and I don’t realize that we have grievously misjudged your massive height until we are wrestling with a 25lb ten-month-old to pry pennies out of its mouth and ceramics out of its hands. I leave the living room for 3.7 seconds and I re-enter to discover that you’ve now grown enough to reach THAT THING. You know, THAT THING. THAT THING that Mom probably paid good money for that is lying in the floor broken, covered in slobber, and missing important buttons. THAT THING.

Over the past few weeks, we have placed lots of THAT THING into the extra-large closet we often refer to as “the attic”. I assume these trinkets and purely decorative items will one day be removed from their hiding places and assume their positions on the coffee tables, side tables, buffet tables, bookshelves, and all the other pieces of furniture you’ve recently decided to thoroughly investigate because there might be a reachable crack large enough to hide at least one ball of cat hair you can eat. The name “baby proofing” is so innocuous for what you are actually doing. Because I truly feel that “baby proofing” is more about removing all the household items in your home that-if you were off balance, barely speaking, and unable to turn corners well-could kill you. (FYI: This is easily accomplished by getting nasty drunk and attempting to walk around your home without getting at least one bruise.) You’d be surprised how many household items could cause death under those circumstances.

I also don’t understand how it is that you seem both immediately recognize and want to chew on the EXACT THINGS THAT WILL KILL YOU DEAD. If anyone ever asks me if my child would rather eat chocolate-covered bunnies dipped in rainbows or electrical cords…I can quickly give the correct answer. My child would prefer an electrical cord, please. Or maybe a quarter. Save those chocolate-covered bunnies for the wussies. We don’t have any of those in this family. We’d like to digest forged metals and things that conduct life-ceasing currents.

This is also the month where I’ve decided that I’m going to have to talk to God about the whole “eight teeth before one-year old” thing being extremely unfair. In the past week you’ve decided that leaning over to hug Mama isn’t as exciting as leaning over to hug Mama and then biting the freaking hell out of her chest. I really have no idea how to break you of this habit. I don’t believe in spanking at this age and it’s only after screaming “no” in my most MEANEST VOICE POSSIBLE and then watching you giggle and clap that I realize how creative non-beating forms of discipline are going to have to be.

You then sometimes follow that clap with a string of forcefully stated consonants and vowels that usually makes me want to pump my fist and say “hell yeah!” I have no idea what you are saying, but the conviction with which you espouse it impresses me. Talking in general is something you’ve definitely ramped up in the past month.

I talk to you a lot more now too. I tell you everything that we are doing. I announce when I am putting your shoes on your feet. I tell you when we are putting a shirt over your head and when we are about to wash your hair while you are taking a bath. Sometimes, when you are screaming I tell you that I am going to the kitchen to get a nice tall drink of wine and that if you want any attention from me you might as well stop making all that noise and start crawling after me. You usually comply. This lets me know you are a hell of a lot smarter than we give you credit for. Mainly for two reasons:

1) You understand the importance of wine in this family

2) You realize that no one likes whiners in this family and that if my Papaw ever catches a-hold of you he will tell you that he has “shrapnel worse than that in his EYE.” ("that" being whatever injury-emotional or physical-that has precipitated the whining)

YES, IN HIS EYE.

But, a Korean also jammed the butt of his rifle into Papaw’s forehead severing a few important brain connections.

I am now at the point in my mothering where I want to start showing you things just to see how you react. I’m totally interested in how you would respond to certain new foods, or places. I want to take you places that I think are cool and tell you about them. I want to play hooky just to lie on the couch and toss you up in the air and get you to mimic funny noises that I make. I want to spend more time with you.

I can honestly say that I can’t WAIT until you can speak English.

Love,
Mama