Dear Parks,

It’s getting colder outside and I love the change. It will be the first Christmas where you actually understand there is something “different” going on and I can’t wait to see your face the first time you see a Christmas tree, or get to open a present, or dig through your stocking, or wake up on Christmas morning and see what Santa has brought to you with no knowledge that Santa is actually your dad wandering around in his boxers trying to find the ONE DAMN SCREW that holds THE WHOLE DAMN THING TOGETHER. You know, THAT screw. The one I’m pretty sure I probably threw away because your dad left it sitting in a half-empty coffee mug on top of the mantel taped to a spoon. Because that’s how he categorizes “important” things. AS IF ONE WOULD KNOW.

I’ve always been partial to the fall. My whole life I’ve been that way. When the first cool breeze hits the air and I feel the wind shift, things get clearer and clearer and are covered with less pollen and haze; it’s like I can see the world better. I feel as if an oppressive lingering heat depression lifts off my shoulders and I can conquer the world. I then make approximately two thousand commitments to people to keep my racing brain occupied and I already start to think about how the world will be different next summer. It won’t be as hot and I’ll be willing to get outside and run around with you. Missing the one fact that I’ve always hated summer, will continue to hate summer, and probably shouldn’t tell you that I’m pretty sure-after much reflection- I hate the summer because I was a fat kid and I didn’t want to be forced to wear the clothing that showed everyone how “fat “of I kid I was.

Also, I hate the smell of cut grass.

Your dad says this makes me Un-American. I think it actually makes me “Un-Un-American” as most of the Hispanics I know are usually cutting some sort of grass as the rest of us “Americans” can’t be bothered. And, oh, WE HATE THE SMELL.

We took you to the State Fair for the first time this year and figured out that you LOVE Pygmy Goats just about as much as you love the cats. Like, a REALLY WHOLE LOT. And, not in an “I like pygmy goats in a scary sort of child molester” way but in an “I really, really, really like a pygmy goat” sort of way. Judging from the way you reacted when we removed you from the presence of a pygmy goat, your dad and I need to purchase one just so we can have four uninterrupted hours of TV watching time on Friday nights. All that seems to be required is handing you a sack of sliced carrots and the leash to a brown pygmy goat. At least, I imagine that a pygmy goat would be on a leash. Who knows, right? I’m assuming there’s a carnie out there that knows but I’m not going to ask them. Mainly because I'm pretty sure there is more than one carnie out there that spent four hours on a Friday night with nothing but a bag of carrots and a pygmy goat to entertain them. And, due to that, they can keep their knowledge about pygmy goats on leashes to themselves.

So, you’ll have to live with your pygmy goat on a leash and LIKE IT, missy, you hear me? Now here are some carrots and go outside and let your dad and I watch Bill Maher and eat cookies and refried beans.

Lately (okay…like FOREVER AGO), you’ve become a hot mess of flinging whole-body-limp-going screaming fits of rage and tears…so almost two? We can’t take you anywhere. We figured this out in vivo-as they say-at a restaurant two weeks ago when your father and I made the erroneous assumption that we could peaceably take you into a restaurant, sit down, order, and eat a cheeseburger in some form of peace. After all, we’d been doing it for the past 15 months with no issue whatsoever. I’ll pause a minute for the seasoned parents to stop laughing.

They are laughing because they know we made a rookie mistake. The “rookie mistake” of believing that just because we could do anything TWO SECONDS AGO does not mean that we can do it NOW, as in RIGHT NOW, as in TWO SECONDS LATER. Because, in that two seconds, your brain formed different neurons that decided that event could NEVER BE ALLOWED AGAIN EVER-until eighteen years later when we’re beaten, saggy, defeated, and wondering at what point DHS won’t put us in jail if we decide you have to sleep under the house. Can you tell I haven’t been sleeping? What day is it? I can’t remember. WHERE’S YOUR FATHER?

Anyway, halfway through the meal I texted your Nana, “We have reached the point of restaurant melt downs”. She had the foresight to realize that this situation was probably not funny to me…YET. That maybe this was one of those situations that was going to take a few weeks to be funny, one of THOSE kinds of situations. You know, like the kind of situations where you turn on the gas stove and accidentally set your head on fire and it’s not really funny until you realize that your eyebrows will grow back and those sort of melted looking ears aren’t that bad. Because Nana didn’t text back anything. Not a DAMN WORD of “advice”. This is not usual behavior for your Nana as she usually has advice about everything and-in fact-gets paid by people to give them this advice in “therapy”. I’m glad your Nana didn’t text back because, at that point, anything she said would have garnered a response that pretty much sounded like, “EFF. YOU. I want a cheeseburger. I’m at pre-pregnancy weight. And I have I told you to go fuck yourself today, yet? ”

But she didn’t and I didn’t and all sat well between the two of us for a while.

Your Nana hasn’t been keeping you every weekend due to other obligations. So, your father and I are getting a break every OTHER weekend (poor us, I know, right?). Therefore, your Nana hasn’t had you spend the night at her house in over two weeks. That’s a LOT longer than two seconds, isn’t it? Are you catching my drift here?

So, Nana-not taking heed to my earlier text concerning restaurant behavior-woke up this morning obviously feeling very SASSY as you had slept all night and she wanted pancakes. She decided since everyone was so well rested and there’s a Cracker Barrel right up the interstate from their lovely abode that she would travel, you included, to said Cracker Barrel, sit down, and eat a calm and perfectly reasonable breakfast of pancakes while you sat in a high chair and glowed like the small angel that you are. In her mind, I'm pretty sure there were even blue birds floating around your head farting flowers that smelled like rainbows.

HA. TWO SECONDS, NANA. THERE WILL BE NO RAINBOW-SMELLING FLOWER-FARTING BLUE BIRDS HERE.

I was unaware that this was happening this morning as I was busy enjoying twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. I know, my body was like, “WTF? Are we in a Turkish Prison? Why have we been laying down this long? And while we are at it, who is this man lying beside me that isn’t wearing a diaper?”

Right when I was about to wonder out loud when the “dogs were being brought in”, I remembered where I was and my name. I then realized that my body had been asleep for a full twelve hours. It is about this EXACT time that your escapade at the restaurant two weeks earlier became amusing to me.

So, what was EXTRA amusing to me today, you ask?

Well, when I texted Nana my usual Sunday morning question of, “How’s that baby?”

This is the text I got in response:


“Slept great. We tried to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast-BIG MISTAKE. Great nap. Has some diarrhea. Little fussy now.”

I read it and I realized-except for that sleeping part-that Nana had pretty much summed up your entire last two weeks in five sentences and did you see how it took me, like, a bazillion? Nana’s much more talented than I am. And other than that, I think that might be the funniest text I’ve ever gotten. It’s like the telegram version of a status update, isn’t it?

But, I’m going to give her a couple of weeks before I tell her how funny I really think it is.

(I'm thinking its going to take even longer for her to think you pooping in the bathtub the last time you spent the night was even funnier)


Love,
Mom

Dear Parks,

Last week you received your very first set of skinned knees. I’m not sure if that was more of a milestone for your Dad and me, or you. I have a tendency to think it was probably a bigger deal for us as your father cried like a little girl, my first reaction was to call 911, and you basically stood up in the yard like Rambo breaking through the top of a lake in the jungle with an automatic weapon and fired off something akin to, “You WUSSIES. A LITTLE BLOOD WILL NOT STOP ME FROM EATING THIS GRASS.” Then you ate some grass and snapped a kitten’s neck just for pure pleasure. Kidding. That kitten part I totally made up.

What’s strange is that at the time I couldn’t decide which upset me more. The eating of something from OUTSIDE or the fact that you were bleeding and gave as much care to that as a roided-out college football player. In fact, you screamed your ass off when we dragged you inside for a rub of Neosporin and a band aid. Once we figured out that you were not going to break in half and dissolve into red plumes of skinned flesh, your Dad and I visibly relaxed, called both sets of grandparents, and retold the story like Korean vets discussing a jungle skirmish.

The next day I whacked you on the side of the eye with a dresser drawer when you snuck up behind me and it left a small cut near your eye. I then spent the better part of three days CONVINCED someone was going to report us for child abuse instead of reporting you for having a really, really hard head and a preternatural ability to sneak up behind people without them hearing you. If I wasn’t pretty sure who your daddy was, I’d think you were part Native American.

Lately, you’ve fallen in love with “Dora” and “Boots” (and can scream their names in a frequency only heard by ferrets, as well) but you also have discovered “The Backyardigans” and “Blues Clues”. “The Backyardigans” come on at 7pm and this is usually the time you are wrapping up dinner. If you can hear the theme song in the kitchen you raise your arms, bark, and demand to be taken out of your high chair so you can run into the living room to stare at the TV for 30 minutes. And, when I say stare, I mean loose all high levels of consciousness, go into a trance, and stand still staring at the television where even a hand being waved in front of your face will not break your concentration. Like a medium channeling “Uniqua’s” spirit. At first, we were a little freaked out as your ability to concentrate on something for a long period of time is extremely scary. Yes, SCARY.

When you have a 15-month-old who doesn’t even acknowledge your existence if you jump up and down and wave chocolate bunny cookies under her nose-and she’s related to you and you KNOW how much a good chocolate bunny is worth the effort-you WILL get freaked out about it. Your father and I have become increasingly more upset about the love you seem to have for the television. So upset that three days ago we became “those” sort of parents. You know, the sort of parents that decide “Hey! We don’t really like our child a whole lot so let’s REFUSE to let her watch television and see how pissed she gets. Just for shits and giggles”.

So, two nights ago with absolutely no ceremony, we turned off all the televisions and silently watched your head explode all over the living room for the next thirty minutes until you adjusted to the idea that you were actually going to be forced to interact with your parents for the next hour and a half until bedtime. There was wailing and slapping and screaming and stomping and dramatic throwing of oneself on the floor while beating of hands and fists and the gnashing of teeth. It was of Biblical proportions. I’ve never known I’d made a better parenting decision than right then when I was watching your reaction. If you loved Blue’s Clues THAT MUCH it was obvious your father and I were not making enough of a mark on your psyche.

You finally calmed down and let us read you books and point out pictures while you delighted in telling us what everything was, “buder-ply” (butterfly) and “bee” and “wow-wer” (flower) and “woof woofs” and “meow meows” and “dars” (stars). And, seriously, it’s not just because I’m your mom, but I think if we recorded you saying “buder-ply” and “wow-wer” that we could instantaneously cause world peace if we played it over world-wide loud speakers just with the cuteness dripping off the mispronunciation of each word. Last night I think I offered you a brand new car if you would just say “buder-ply” ONE MORE TIME. You obliged every single time until I could tell that you were getting a little tired and looking at me like, ‘Hey, Lady, I’ve told you what that effin’ BUG is fourteen times in the past thirty minutes. If you can’t remember, I’m sort of scared that I am your progeny. I hope my Dad is smarter for my own sake.”

But, you did oblige us every time we asked until about thirty minutes later when I asked you if you wanted to play in your room until bed time and you raised your arm, pointed towards the television, and pretty plainly asked me in your own language “Will the television be playing in the bedroom, M’lady?” I know you asked this because when I answered it with a very clear, “No. We aren’t going to watch television in the bedroom either” you returned to previous explosive head state full on with the slapping and beating of the floor. I couldn’t really get upset as this fit was, once again, about” Dor-da” so I just stood there until your father caved and picked you up and we seemed to convince you that you were going to live. It took a while for you to believe us. But, you eventually did and we finally put you to bed that first night with no television and you calmed enough to seem to enjoy the extra reading and interaction.

The second night….well, let’s just say there was about the same amount of angst regarding the TV not being turned on but for fewer minutes than the first and you settled into playing with your father and I a little quicker and took delight in showing us all the “bees” and “buder-plys” and “wow-wers” once again. We retrieved some new books and laughed as you made a “vroom vrrooom” sound for all the cars in it along with screaming “DUK” every time we turned the page and you saw the yellow feathered creature.

Every. Single. Time.

That book seemed to last as long as “War and Peace”. Only with less Russians and instead of having 16 different names, every one was named "DUCK".

Luckily, we finally came to a “tiger” in the book and-being pretty sure that you had no idea what that was-I pointed to it and said, “TYE-GERR”. You pointed at it and said “danke scheon”. OK, Wayne Newton. Whatever. Let’s try this again.

I point at the picture and say “TYE-GERR” and you point at it and say “Danke Scheon”. I have a hard time not bursting into song here and reenacting the parade scene from Ferris Bueller. So, I just say, “Yeah, it’s a Danke Scheon” and we moved on. I figure there will be a pre-school teacher somewhere who can clean that mess up. Just like they can tell you Mama’s cleavage isn’t really her belly button. What the hell are we paying them for anyway?

After finishing this book, it was nearing bedtime and as an afterthought we decided to ask you if you were “ready to go night night”. Normally, this incurs a little bit of screaming followed by some screaming with a little more scream-filled screams. But that night, you popped up, threw your sippie at your Dad and mumbled something that sounded like, “blowin’ this borin’-ass joint”, turned around, slid off the couch and practically ran to your room like your ass was on fire. You then pointed at your Dad, pointed at your paci, and then pointed at the rocking chair. You then stood there with your hands outstretched like, “Come on, bitches, let’s DO THIS THANG.” Your dad sat down, put you in his lap, cranked back and you were asleep within two minutes.

It’s so nice to know we entertain you that much. We love you too, honey.

There were lots of “firsts” in the past few weeks. We left you for the first time with people that were not family. Well, not “technically” family. But, your Uncle T and Aunt M are pretty much related minus that whole pesky ‘sharing blood’ thing. Although they don’t have kids…we thought if you were in your crib asleep there was slim to 23% chance of them not killing you within three hours. Surprisingly, they managed not to kill you and your father and I got over our fear of leaving you with anyone other than our mothers. Well, *I* did. Your dad checked his phone every two minutes and vibrated the entire time we were out for dinner.

Have we discussed the level of anxiety that you are naturally going to inherit from the both of us yet? If we haven’t, maybe I should go ahead and start schooling you on symptoms and pharmaceuticals. Although, with the way you react to some situations, I can already tell you are going to be an interesting kid who has her own ideas about how things should work. Basically, everything in the world belongs to you and the rest of us are just borrowing it without your permission.

Like, yesterday morning, when I got into the shower in “your” bathroom (which isn’t really YOUR bathroom so much as a bathroom that happens to be attached to your bedroom) and you pulled back the shower curtain and screamed, “NO MAMA. MY WA WA”. You continued to scream this for three minutes until I nearly broke a leg falling over laughing in the tub and your dad came in and dragged you away screaming “NOOOOOOO” as you beat your fists on his chest. You know, because no one should have the gumption to use YOUR WA WA without permission. Next time I’m going to bring up how you totally used my uterus for ten months without MY permission. Let’s not even mention the conditions under which you came into the world. I think that certainly makes me worthy of using a few drops of YOUR WAWA. At least, I think so. It’s also why I take bites of your ice cream cones, kiss you as much as I want no matter how hard you push me away, and occasionally put stupid ass outfits on you for my entertainment. I figure I’ve earned it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll totally show you my hemorrhoids.

I’ll leave you with something that your great-grandfather once said to me.

“Quit your crying. I’ve had worse things in MY EYE.”

He then rubbed me down with gasoline while smoking a cigar to kill the “chiggers” I was screaming about.

Granted, not the best parenting advice. But definitely a good perspective through which to see the world. Or, maybe just borderline neglect. Who knows?

All I DO know is that right now you are the coolest thing EVER.

Love,
Mama

Dear Parks,

I'd like for you to stop being so cute. Its making your bedtime especially difficult for your Mama and Daddy.




Love,
Your Parents

Dear Parks,

Yesterday you woke me up by biting me on the arm. Hard. Right after I informed you that “OWWIE, HURT MOMMY” you got this extremely confused look on your face. You then raised your own arm and proceeded to bite your own self. REALLY hard. Immediately afterwards, I saw understanding dawn on your face and you very eloquently said, “UH OH”.

Yes, “UH OH”, it looks like the pediatrician was wrong and you aren’t a genius. Stop biting yourself, kid. Save that for the boys in pre-school, or high school for that matter. If you REALLY want to make your Mama happy you could also bite bitchy girls in junior high as well. I promise I’ll have your back if the principal calls and blame it on some rare genetic disorder like “Bitchititis”. And then I will tell them you can fart on cue and burp the alphabet and WHY AREN’T THEY CULTIVATING YOUR GOD GIVEN TALENTS? What am I hypothetically paying them for anyway?

The past few weeks with you have been nothing short of sheer joy dipped in sunshine with my only regret being wishing that I had more time with you just so we could “hang” and talk. I’m convinced you hold the secrets to the universe. Well, at least my universe. We can pretty much communicate like any normal talking human beings except no one else can understand you but me. Tonight you let loose with a stream of gibberish and I told your Dad that you very clearly said that “he couldn’t have your BaBa” right after he told you the beer on the kitchen counter you were desperately trying to grab was “Dada’s Baba”. I told him you were pissed-as any good offspring of mine would be at being denied a Budweiser-and that you pretty much thought he was denying you your night-night BaBa. And this grievous insult was the cause for the flinging, dramatic fit you were currently throwing. I think it took all he had not to throw the remote at my head when he smart assedly returned, “Thank you, Rick Warren.” Hey man, I got mad 14-month-old language skillz. What can I say?

I don’t know how I CAN understand you. I don’t know if it’s a “mama” thing or if I’ve just been around really, really drunk people for way too much time in my life. But, when you look at me very seriously and say, “I umba nee mah ba ba un me meow meow”. This means you would like a bottle and be taken to bed. Your dad, on the other hand, thinks it means you would like an Asian massage and another beer. Some nights we try both-just for shits and giggles. Surprisingly, they both seem to work equally well.

I would also like to mention that you speak fluent “Cat”. When you are either very angry or very upset, you will frequently scream-or whine ”UM MEOW MEOOOOW”. I occasionally want to ask Fat Jesus The Cat to translate. But, he’s too busy trying to reach his ass so he can clean it. I don’t like to interrupt him because his valiant effort at this undertaking of cleaning his undercarriage is probably the only reason he isn’t in a shelter. I’ll give anybody a chance if they are TRYING. (I AM a social worker after all)

Unfortunately, he can’t reach his huge ass and this often results in lots of “dirty tooter stains” on the couch. I won’t save you the gory details as they are part of my daily life. When Fat Jesus pees it catches in his tooter hair and dries there to make this lovely stench which he then drags along all the furniture. I might be willing to put up with this behavior without beating his ass daily if he would at least aid us in understanding your frequent long streams of “Meow, meow, meooooow, MEOW, MEOW”. Mainly because we are starting to think you aren’t normal. The spinning and repeatedly walking around the house shoving your whole hand in your mouth and then pulling it out and screaming, “EEEMMM” doesn’t help either. You are totally weird. I’m so proud. In fact, between all that and your freakishly large vocabulary for a 14-month-old it would normally have the hypochondriac in me screaming “AUTISM” faster than you can swing a dead cat if you weren’t the most social animal that I’ve ever met.

Your GG takes you story time at the library two days a week where she says that you must walk around and greet all the other children before you allow the librarian to start. The librarian then allows you to “ring in the ceremonies” by pushing all the noise-making books first. You get this from me. Just don’t get the whole “taking a shot of tequila and getting so friendly you take your shirt off” part from me and we’ll be good to go. I mean, at least until college. We don’t want to raise an after school special around here.

Three weeks ago you started waking up in the morning and immediately pointing to the mole in the center of my forehead. The mole I’ve had my whole life. The mole people constantly think is a huge zit as it’s almost skin colored. After a few days of your obvious intense curiosity, I finally just screamed “MOLE” one morning when you pointed at it. This is where I start cursing my impulse control issues as now every morning when you wake up, you roll over, point at my forehead and scream, “MOOL”. It’s like I gave birth to Austin Powers. But with better dressing style and no horrific English accent.

We’ve started a new routine in the afternoons where as soon as you get home we all go into the front yard and let you run barefoot in the grass while you squeal and frequently face plant into the ground. The obvious pure joy you have at this seemingly mundane activity gives me hope for the world in general as your Mom and Pops are feeling a little broken down right now. It’s been a rough month for all of us around here and not just because you are cutting six new teeth at the same time. Your father and I are struggling with both losing our idealist ideas about saving the world as within one month’s time we’ve both had our home, and our cars, broken into. Mama’s job got ultimately more complicated due to budget cuts, your Nana got put in the hospital this morning, and two weeks ago a kid at my facility went nuts and did five thousand dollars worth of damage while basically holding my entire staff hostage for an hour. Shits been rough, kid. You’ve been my rock.

Because, when stuff like that happens and I come home and your GG tells me that while you were having “nekkid time” that day running around the house she turned her back for one minute and then heard you say, “UH OH, WA WA” and turned to find you stomping in a puddle of your own urine, it makes the whole crappy day take on a brighter tinge of sunshine. I shouldn’t be as entertained by this as I am. But, you know, when it feels like the world is falling apart, if you can’t laugh at pools of pee on the floor, what do you have left?

Hopefully, I always have you. And when I have days like this…where my idealism is challenged. Where my cynical nature is running rampant and I’m cursing the world instead of trying to save it. You remind me WHY I’ve fought so hard for so long. And it’s that part of my life-you-that keeps my chin up and tits out-as my friend Em used to always tell me. Pools of pee in the kitchen always lighten the day. The fact that your GG said you spent three minutes stomping in it like it was a rain puddle lets me know there will ALWAYS be something worth saving. The fact that she lets you reminds me there alway was.

If only for our innocence, our sense of humor, and our little family's nightly Budweisers and Asian Massages. I love them so much I almost can't touch those feelings for fear of the gagging certain to follow. But always know, your Mama ain't as tough as she acts. Except for when it comes to you. Then I can turn into a eight-legged sixty-four clawed Saber toothed tiger with a set of poison darts and a blow gun with a scope. But, really, that's just because I've been living in Jackson for a while.




Here’s lookin’ at you kid,
Mama

Dear Parks,

The other day your Nana sent me a text message that said, "I need more flogging" and it was only right before I was about to smartly answer back, "Well, yes, on most days I agree" that I realized the text actually said, "I need more BLOGGING." And, since Nana hasn't taken up a spot on the blog roll lately, I'm thinking she means ME.

When I finally realized what she was talking about I thought back and realized that with everything that's been going on since...oh, MAY, that I haven't had time to get on here and tell you everything cool that you've been doing. Mainly because I'm too busy spending time watching you do cool shit. But, I'll stop with the gushing.

It may also seem suspicious to some that the absolute black out on blog postings came about the same time you learned to walk well enough that you quickly turned into an 80-year-old Grandma about it and decided to trade in your knees. Kid, we can't keep up with you!

First, by some freak of nature you're twice the size of a normal one-year-old. You wear a 2T and were so tall at your one year check up that the nurse actuallly said, "I can't tell you what percentile she is in height because she's off the top of the chart." Unfortunately, the ability to empty the dishwasher or scrub the toilet has yet to appear on your development curve. Mama's waiting on those two. Those two are important.

Second, you are extremely, extremely FAST. I've never seen anything like it in professional sports. They should put 13-month-olds on basketball courts. I turn around for five seconds and you are GONE. And, what's worse, you are QUIET. When you are GONE and QUIET your father and I secretly have quiet panic attacks until one of us locates you. Usually this is in a bathroom splashing in a toilet...or sucking on one of your dad's dirty socks. To tell you the honest truth...sometimes we can't get to you before the "Thing That Isn't Supposed To Be Eaten" gets eaten.

It's probably fitting that you got your first real "virus" this past week. You've been in and out of everywhere the past three weeks and we can't keep you from licking most foreign objects. I'd pretty much expected you to contract some form of flesh-eating something way earlier than this point. But, instead of flesh eating there is just a "virus". There isn't even a name for it. The Doc just called it a "virus". It's caused a croupy, rattly sounding cough, a low grade fever, some intermittant general malaise and a reduction in your appetite.

The Doc was unable to explain much about its origin or progression other than us just letting it "work its course" and that sometimes "kids just pick up these things". It was about then that my mind flashed back to exactly a week prior when we were in Chatanooga (family reuinion...WHOLE OTHER Butterknife blog entry) eating at "Mud Pie" and I took you into the bathroom to change your diaper (as shitting in public is now your second full time job-behind being cute, of course) and when I dropped you down to stand on the floor in order to rehook the changing station I turned back around to find you rubbing your hands on it. Yes, THE FLOOR. IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM. Right after I had a panic attack, took a Xanax, and located the nearest antibacterial hand soap, I lathered you up to your elbows like you were prepping for surgery and just prayed that whatever disease you incurred didn't cause you to sleep less or cry more. Fortunately, this "virus" did both. YEAH FOR ME!!

Other than being "quick, fast and nimble" you are becoming increasingly more verbal. Every day. The pace of your language aquisition freaks me out. You know all your body parts, animals, and bodily functions. (Hey, we don't want you to miss out on the joys of farting!) You learn more every day. One day, you walked into the dining room when I was turning on the lamp and you pointed and said, "Light!" and I said, "WELL, I'LL BE DAMNED." My second sentence was, "Who taught you that?" Because we didn't. Weird kid.

We quickly figured out that you were in that stage of learning where several new words could be aquired in a given day. We delighted in teaching you "feet", and "hands", and "high five", and "POOP?" We excitidely told you everything we were doing and the name of everything you could possibly pick up. Not only were your Mom and Dad excited about it, but your Nana and GG were as well.

In fact, one Sunday after Nana kept you the night before so your father and I could hang out and talk about things that didn't involve your POOP, we walked into the kitchen and she exclaimed, "LOOK WHAT I'VE TAUGHT HER!" (I had to stop myself from asking if it was our taxes because we desperately need some good help with them.)

Your Nana looked at you and asked, "Parksie, where is your belly button?" And you immediately hiked up your dress above your waist, displayed your belly very proudly, and then vigorously stuck your finger into it. Everyone was very excited.

Everyone was clapping and saying lots of "GOOD GIRL" and all I could think was, "Way to go NANA! You've just pretty much taught my child how to get free beads at Mardi Gra." Guess we can go ahead and knock that one off the "Parenting To Do" list.

Although, I will readily admit that this "belly button" exposure has turned into a game for the family. Every morning you now wake up and have to find Dada's "BOO-EE-BUH-ON". This leads to a game where you lift up his t-shirt and firmly stick your index finger into his belly button then look up excitedly waiting for the clapping and praise. We oblige and then you wait one minute before you perform the exact same trick for the exact same price. Occasionally, you will throw in a viewing of your belly button for free. We all giggle and laugh and it's very cute. One would have thought you discovered a way to get paid for not working with the way we react each time.

This all leads to this evening. Tonight, while I'm pretty sure you were high on your cough medicine prescribed for your "virus", you climbed up onto the couch and threw yourself onto my lap giggling. You were teasing me and hiding your head while I was trying to kiss your neck. All of a sudden, you popped up, snatched down my shirt, and poked my boob (YES, I SAID "BOOB"). This is not totally strange to me as here lately you've had some days where you act like you aren't aware the milk factory closed almost a year ago. But, this time, you poked my boob, then put your finger right above my cleavage. You looked at me questioningly, like, "What is this strange valley in your chest? But more importantly, are their cheddar crackers hidden in it?" And, as you poked your finger into my cleavage for a third time (and right before I was about to demand dinner and a drink), your eyes lit up with understanding and you exclaimed, "MAMA BOO-EE-BUH-ON"!

And, well, I just agreed with you. Because when you ask at the age of 13 "Why aren't my belly buttons growing?" I can just have a large laugh, another glass of wine, and think about how wonderfully entertaining it is to be a parent. Much like tonight.

Love you Toot B,
Mama

Dear Parks,

Yesterday I didn't feel good and your dad's Father's Day didn't turn out well at all. In fact, it just didn't turn out. I'm trying to make myself feel better by telling myself that I made a HUGE big deal out of it last year as it was his first and you were a week old. See, I didn't get my first Mother's Day until this year. You were born smack in the middle of the two.

But, it doesn't matter. I should have tried to do better-despite the fact of being tethered to the toilet most of the day.

There's really no way for me to express to you how super cool your dad is. One day, you will find out.

I find that if I try to make myself list all the ways that make him as wonderful as he is...I start to cry. And that look isn't flattering on me at all. But, I'm going to try to give you just a few anyway.

1) The only time I've ever known your dad to cry was the night you were born and in the NICU. That's it. In fact, because I was incapacitated, *I* didn't even see it. Someone told me. He told me later that he just couldn't handle it. Your dad freaks out often when it comes to things he "can't handle" but he never, EVER cries. He just loves us a whole, whole lot and that night carried a lot of emotion for him.

2) Your dad openly admits-at least on a weekly basis-that his favorite thing to do in the whole world is hang out with the two of us.

3) He read the Dr. Sears Baby Book and decided you MUST eat beets. I know you don't see this as "kind" now. But, its kind of like discipline. It hurts us more than it hurts you. Actually, I'm not eating the beets...so it's probably going to hurt you more. But I promise it means he loves you. The same goes for the spinach. (Don't worry. I'll slip you napkins to spit it into)

4) He ALWAYS gets out of the bed in the middle of the night to get you a bottle. I sit in the bed, rub your head while you scream, and bark orders listing all the things needed: "BABA, STAT. FIGHTER, STAT. NEW DIAPER, STAT."

5) When I wander over to whatever he is doing while I am doing NOTHING and state "She pooped" he walks over to you without a word, picks you up (TRYING NOT TO PUSH ON YOUR BUTT!!!) and takes you to change your diaper. Sometimes I provide wipey support. Sometimes I finish doing whatever important thing it is that I was doing...like watching a McDonald's commercial and NOT GAGGING.

6) He gives your morning pee pee diapers "Purple Hearts" for being wounded in the line of duty because they are so full.

7) He lets you bite him. Like, on purpose.

8) He rubbed my feet EVERY SINGLE NIGHT of my pregnancy. Not that he didn't complain about it. But, who cares about complaining when you know a foot rub is coming?

9) His office is wallpapered with pictures of you in various stages of development. When anyone enters, he gives them detailed information concerning each one.

10) Every morning when we wake up he tells us "Good Morning" then asks if we slept well and then tells us he loves us. I can't tell you how often Daddy's DON'T do that.

And since we're here...Let's take this to 11.

11) He gets off work later than I do but still picks you up from GG's every day (an hour and a half trip in bumper to bumper rush hour traffic) just so I can have time to wind down and write.

And I don't think he'll ever understand what that means to me.

So, I hope that when you are 15-years-old and filled with angst and spite, you remember that every time you tell him he "sucks", his heart is going to break a little. Go easy on him. He's a big softy when it comes to you. Not that I'm not. But, I'm much more inclined to beat you first and ask questions later.

I don't think that point was more illustrated than two nights ago when you were having another difficult night sleeping and we were doing a version of "Cry It Out" that consisted of letting you cry for two minutes at a time and then coming in to soothe you after which we put you right back in the crib. This was a grievous insult to you and after the fourth trip where I held you until you calmed down and tried to lay you back down, your father entered the room and you began squealing at the top of your lungs, "DA DA DA DA" and hurling your body towards him. He moved to take you away from me and I quickly told him to leave the room and informed him in my best military voice that, "the enemy has identified the weak link and is working to divide the troops". He quickly ducked out of the room but not before he yelled back at me, The General, that he would "do it but it felt like his skin was being peeled from his body."

Love,
The General

Dear Parks,

Your FATHER is making me feed you beets for dinner.

Just wanted to clear that up.

Love,
Mama

Dear Parks,

A year ago right at this time I was in labor with you. The doctor had broken my water an hour previously and I was starting to feel some, ahem, rather “intense” contractions. I was still joking with your father at the time that the first thing I wanted when you “got out of my belly” was a 12 inch foot long from Subway considering they wouldn’t let me eat. I had no idea how 21 inches of infant was going to change every priority I had the instant you appeared and I was finally allowed to hold you. Let’s just say I still love a good sub sandwich but I wouldn’t run across a busy intersection risking life and limb just to hold it in my arms. No offense, Jared.

I had no idea what the next year of our lives would bring us. The hours spent NOT SLEEPING. The hours spent just staring out your face. The hours spent SCREAMING. And the hours spent NOT SLEEPING. Have I talked about the lack of sleep yet? I can’t remember, I’m tired.

Then there was the struggle of going back to work and balancing that life with a home life that afforded you all the love and time you needed and deserved. I’d like to say that we’ve won that struggle. I know that we do the best that we can on most days and you are so happy that I can’t think that the decisions we’ve made about raising you were bad ones. Except that one about deciding you were going to sleep in our bed. Not that I HATE an active kicking infant who has inherited her father’s propensity for kicking and slapping. It’s just that with two of you in the bed now, I’m not sure when your father is going to get arrested for spousal abuse due to the amount of bruising on my arms and legs incurred from a swift foot to the thigh or a roundhouse back handed slap when you decide to turn over. But waking up with you is worth all that. It’s like waking up with the Jimmy Dean sunshine man in bed only he’s MUCH cuter and he smells like heaven and when he giggles, well, my heart soars and I think I can do almost anything. Sausage biscuits don’t normally do that to me (at least they haven’t since I was pregnant). But, you definitely do.

I think about times just ten months ago when you were so teeny and you got your first fever and I held you all day just freaking out of my effing mind because you were so TINY and how could you get a FEVER? I thought it took at least twelve pounds to muster the energy to work up a good fever. We took you to the doctor and you not only had a fever, but a pretty good diaper rash, were allergic to milk and had a case of colic. I distinctly recall telling the doctor that I felt like, “The Baby was FALLNG APART”. And considering up until that point in my life I was pretty much like Nana in that I was the Valedictorian of Running Everything, I felt like a miserable failure. Good GOD, who was running this joint? Exactly. It was the first real lesson in motherhood I ever had. But, your father and I nursed you through that fever. We got you over that colic. And, ultimately, we kept you alive for an entire 12 months. I consider this a personal success.

Now, I practically laugh when you scream bloody murder as I drag you away from yet another normal household item that could possibly KILL YOU and tell you things like, ‘How bad for you that you have a mother that won’t let you suck on electrical outlets. You have a horrible life. I feel sorry for you.” Then I realize that when you get older, if you don’t start slapping me on purpose when you are awake, you are going to have one MEAN case of the “smart mouth” when you get to kindergarten. I’m waiting on the first call from the teacher when she tells me you’ve said, “Thank you, Captain Obvious” when she tells you that “tee tee goes in the potty” or something else inane required by Pre-K teachers.

Right now, when I tell you “NO” in my Most Severe And Stern Voice Ever, you immediately turn around, do what I was telling you not to do, and parrot back to me, “NO NO”. And then I laugh because I can’t help it and I let you completely dismantle the sound system to the television because, hey, we can buy another one, right? And you just look so damn cute. You now refer to all the things in the house that you aren’t allowed to touch as “no no’s” and your father is worried that you will grow up asking to turn on the “no no’s” in the room so you can see.

There isn’t a day that goes by that your Nana doesn’t call me and declare you a “genius” and most of the time I agree. Except if it’s one of those days you’ve tried to eat cat food or something of that nature. Then I tell her maybe we should hold off on our predictions until you speak English and we can actually ascertain if your IQ is above that of a towel rack. Or, maybe you are just a genius who appreciates the complete vitamin nutrition contained in the tiny little bites of cat food. Who knows?

The other day you stayed home with your dad as I had to work and Nana couldn’t keep you one Friday. I came home at lunch to find your father and you drooling asleep in the bed. You were wearing nothing but a diaper with a paci half falling out of your mouth and your father was pretty much in the same position minus the diaper and the paci. He woke up and I asked him what you had eaten for breakfast and he pronounced, rather proudly, that you had “some strawberries, a few cheerios, and some pepperoni”. I think this shows how far we’ve come in relaxing our rules concerning child care around here.

Just last night you fell down, hit your head, got very upset and then I swear to GOD you said something that sounded just like, “I want my MAMA” and you crawled to me and curled up in my arms and I held you and rubbed your sore noggin and told you that you were okay. And, inside, I died just a little knowing that soon you wouldn’t ask for me when you were hurt. That there will be a day when curling up with your MAMA isn’t an option and you will bonk your head and go about your business. Lord knows I do this pretty regularly. But there isn’t a day that goes by that inside I don’t WANT my Mama when I bonk my noggin, say something stupid, or just in general feel miserable and need some comfort.

And, all I can hope, is that 32 years from now, when you are my age, I have done a good enough job that you still feel that way too.

Happy Birthday, Toodle Bug. You are now officially a “toddler” and no longer a “baby”. I expect all that crying and pooping in diapers nonsense to end post haste.

In the infinite wisdom of N'Sync (and as a tribute to your Godmother Elizabeth whom you were named for) I leave you with these words, "Bye Bye, Baby, Bye Bye..."

I love you now and forever,
Your Mama

Dear Parks,

I woke up today and-after extricating your foot from the small of my back-I realized that in two weeks you will be one-year-old. Like, HOLY CRAP. That means you'll be 1/33 of my age and practically as mature as both your mom and dad put together. Since this revelation, we've mutually decided that you will be responsible for paying the cable and internet bill. That's $162.50 a month. I don't care where you get it, but it's due on the 8th so I'd like it by the 6th. I figure by one you need to start carrying at least part of your weight around here. That's part of 26lbs. I'm carrying ALL of your weight most everyday. I figure you carrying part of it shouldn't break your back. And, hey, aren't you going to be driving soon? I've got some videos I need to return.

After realizing your birthday was looming imminently your father and I freaked out and realized that we have done NOTHING to prepare for this-and I'm not talking about a birthday party. We've already bought the tequila for that. We are "alledgedly" supposed to transition you to WHOLE REAL MILK and, like, FOOD. Someone even mentioned taking your BaBas away. Are these people crazy? I told your father that I was going to buy a flack jacket and some mace as I'm pretty sure you aren't going to take to this transition too kindly.

You DO eat "food items". Like, corn and corn and sometimes some more CORN. But, you really aren't too keen on anything else other than fruit and PUFFS. I'm pretty sure that corn and puffs-although they make for interesting diapers around here-are not nutrionally solvent for a one-year-old.

When we attempt to integrate green things and stuff that actually contain vitamins into your diet the result is usually not pleasant...remember that "hurling" skill I talked about? You've also developed this knack for making something your father and I refer to as "The Ricky Gervais Face". One day I'll let you watch the movie "Ghosttown" just so you can see what I am talking about. Its the face he makes during the part where he has dinner with Tia Leone and there is a large canine in the room that obviously smells horrbly bad? That face. It's a cross between a dry heave, a gag, and a full body convulsion. Sometimes you do it so dramatically that your father and I just laugh and call you out on it. Like a college freshman that's trying to hard at shooting tequila. WE GET IT KID. You don't like SQUASH. You don't have to fall on the floor, gag, and pee your pants. Save that for when you get into a sorority.

And then I say things like, "save that for when you get into a sorority" and I want to laugh, but all I do is get very upset and realize you will leave me one day and all of a sudden I'm in that moment where you are packed and 18 and sassy with long hair and not enough damn sense and are about to take off in your car and all I can think is, "This all went WAY TOO FAST" followed closely by, "I'M NOW ALONE WITH YOUR DAD. WOOT! BACK TO NEKKID SUNDAYS!!"

But, seriously, Happy Almost Birthday. Your Mama is now going to cry and make the Ricky Gervais face for a while (and possibly shoot some tequila).

Please stay little a little bit longer. If you do, I'll let you eat corn and take a Ba-Ba everyday. Or at least until the kids in high school start to give you shit about it. Then I'll help you kick their ass.

Love,
Mama

Dear Parks,

Your cousin Joy recently gave you a lovely bag of jumbo-sized Legos that totally captivate your attention on most days. Your father and I have taken to calling you "Peg Leg" as you now crawl around the house with at least one piece clasped in a sweaty hand and every time you crawl forward we hear the "thunk" of the Lego piece hitting the floor. I kind of like this as I think the next step in this process involves you getting an eye patch and parrot. Eye patches are cool.

The one main problem I seem to be having with the Legos is their seemingly alien ability to reproduce like Gremlins…or rabbits on Viagra (I was going to say like “white trash in Scott County” but those people own weapons and aren’t well educated. In short, they scare me just as much as Republicans and Tea Baggers). Every time I turn around there are NEW Lego pieces scattered around the house. Recently, your dad found one sitting perfectly in the middle of the cat food bowl. (I REALLY don’t want to know how it got there or the behaviors that followed you placing it there) There are two on my night stand. There’s one currently sitting under the TV, one on the side of the front porch, two pieces on the fireplace mantel, one in the middle of the hall, approximately three in the bathtub, and I just pulled another from in-between the couch cushions. I’d like to thank your cousin Joy for this glorious addition to our household as I’m pretty sure she sent them down here while silently screaming “SUCKERS” under her breath as they had finally escaped the nooks and crannies of her house. I’m also going to be sure to pay her back for this favor by purchasing at least seventeen different toys that each make a really loud and annoying sound for both of her children at Christmas. I want to make sure the family love is shared equally.

Last night, completely engrossed in playing with the three that interested you the most, you insisted on bathing with them. One held in each hand, you giggled as the other one floated around the bathtub. You were so distressed at being removed from the bathtub without them that your dad had to carry you back in the bathroom, hang you over the side of the tub, and let you gingerly retrieve them so you could continue “thunking” around the house. I don’t mind the “thunking” as its sort of like having a bell on a cat and no matter where we are or what we are doing; we always know when you are on your way. This has the added bonus of letting us know when to hide the breakables and the vodka. Much like when Cousin Charles comes to visit.

Last weekend your baptism went down without a hitch. “Hitch” being defined in this family as a panic attack. It was touching and simple and beautiful and filled with people who loved you. The priest centered most of the ceremony on the wonder of being a child and learning to see the world with child-like eyes instead of, like, Jesus, and Satan, The Prince of Darkness, (not that we didn’t have to rebuke him. We did) of which I was very appreciative.

The only thing that slightly concerned me was that the priest looked at me and SMIRKED when he asked the question about the “glamour of evil” and “Satan, the Prince of Darkness”. And this is not a man that SMIRKS. SMIRKING is left for me most of the time. When he asked the question, I was only looking at him because I knew if I looked at your Auntie (and godmother) Elizabeth that I was going to do much more than SMIRK. I was going to GIGGLE INAPPROPRIATELY. And this, I could not do. Your great-grandmother was there. She is both deaf and blind and, well, I’d like for her to go to her grave knowing her granddaughter can make it through a thirty minute Christian ceremony without disrespecting the Baby Jesus with a SMIRK. Obviously, this priest cannot. Due to this, I think he and I will get along just fine in the future. Unfortunately, his SMIRK led to increasing paranoia about him reading this blog.

HOW DID HE KNOW ABOUT THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS, PARKSIE?

That, I cannot answer. Maybe he does have a direct line to God through the Pope. And, if he does, I’m terribly screwed. Or, maybe you and he have been having conversations on the side that you haven’t been telling Mama about. Because, sure as I’m sitting here, when that man asked if we “rejected Satan, Father of Sin and Prince of Darkness” you said OUT LOUD in front of the entire room, “I DO”. And then, everyone in the room nearly fell over and shit their pants at the same time. This was a huge surprise to all the participants-including your parents-as minus "Mama", "Dada","Kit-Tay" and some minor babblings that sound somewhat like a cat being strangled, you can't yet speak English.

Your outburst finally allowed your Mama to release the inappropriate giggle she’d been holding in for the past five minutes and then I just GLOWED WITH PRIDE. I had to stop myself from standing on the side of the baptismal font and screaming, “SHE’S A GENIUS. I TOLD YOU, GODDAMNIT!!” But then I thought the “goddamnit” part would be especially inappropriate for your great-grandmother to hear. ( Not that she could. But that doesn’t really matter)

The priest even stopped the ceremony and said, “Well, that’s a first.”

I wanted to retort, “That’s just because you’ve never baptized one of my offspring. We’ll surprise you occasionally with the crap that comes out of our mouths. Just ask my mother. She’s the one standing right over there in the corner shaking her head and making the sign of the cross.”

Thankfully, you saying “I do” was a lot better than your head rotating and green vomit spewing from your mouth. Those were my original, and as it turns out, unfounded worries.

You were delightful. You smiled. You even giggled when he poured water on your head. I REALLY wanted to pop a Lego block in there so you would feel more at home but it turns out you didn’t need it. You WERE at home. You charmed everyone. I was so proud I seriously considered tattooing your face on my arm.

Afterwards all 25 of the family and friends went to eat lunch to celebrate your dedication to The Sweet Baby Jesus, Savior of Mankind, and your Aunt Mary snapped this pick of you deciding what you wanted to eat.



Turns out you wanted strawberries and sweet potato fries. Well, you wanted those right after you took a huge bite out of the actual menu.

Good choice.

Love,

Your Very Proud Mama

Dear Parks,

Yes, I am aware that I didn't post for say...four to fifteen days (remember that whole counting thing we talked about earlier?). Mama's been busy shoving things you want to chew on between the couch cushions and "hiding" them in creative places that she later can't remember. As a side effect of that, I now can locate around 1,348 pieces of oversized colorful Lego blocks you take pleasure in hurling at the walls, but the remote control to the DVD player and two hair clipees? Still missing in action.

"Hurling" was last month's developmental skill. That's a fun one, right? I don't get any "milestone" about which we are supposed to get excited that involves you throwing anything you might be holding as hard as you can at the wall. I mean, its not like we give you Bic lighters and bottles full of gasoline on a daily basis, but if we would have known you were going to develop this "hurling" skill we maybe would have rethought the decision to teach you to wash the crystal wine glasses. They are expensive and Mama's already broken three.(If you have any questions about this, please refer to previous post regarding your mother's skill level at walking)

You turned 11-months-old on Sunday and your father and I celebrated the occasion by attending church. No, it didn't fall down, burst into flames, or get struck by lightening. And, well, "technically" we didn't "attend" church. We attended a class required by the church for you to be baptized.

After much and lengthy discussion, your father and I have decided that you will be Catholic. My argument? It's MUCH easier to be born into the Catholic faith than to become one later. The Methodists that your father claims rights to will take anyone, at anytime, with no pre-required courses or class work whatsoever. Wanna be Methodist later? They'll practically ride over to the house, dunk you in a bathtub, and announce you a believer post haste. They're like the Mormons-except they believe in something that actually exists. Plus, Catholic people are cooler. I promise. (Just look at your mom and Uncle BT.)

Although, I will admit the Catholics are almost throwing around baptisms like the Baptists these days. It was MUCH easier to get you baptized Catholic than I thought considering you were conceived in sin, born into a marriage not blessed by the church, and quite possibly (due to your recently aquired ability to voice your displeasure at being removed from a enjoyable activity in such a way as to alert neighborhood raccoons) a messenger of the Prince Of Darkness himself.

But don't worry, we'll get rid of him this weekend. Your father and I (and your Auntie EB and Uncle BT-as your godparents) have to promise to "reject the glamour of evil and Satan, The Prince of Darkness" in your steed at the baptism.

Your Auntie EB asked if "rejecting the glamour of evil" meant she could no longer watch "True Blood". I informed her that was something she'd have to take up with a man more well-versed than me-the one upstairs. If he says "yes" we both are going to have some hard, hard thinkin' to do. We aren't giving up Sookie for just anyone...even though you are super cool and stuff.

My favorite part of the abovementioned phrase is the "Satan, The Prince of Darkness" part. I like how they qualify his title...you know, just in case you didn't know. Just so you won't get him confused with "Satan, The Director of Cruise Activities" or something like that.

Also, I love the COMMA. "Satan COMMA The Prince of Darkness".

PAUSE RESPECTFULLY, PARKSIE.

But, after Saturday, if "Satan, The Prince of Darkness" comes after you, you will have "Jesus, The Savior of Mankind" on your side. (That and your father can do a MEAN Daniel-Larusso-style crane kick in a pinch)

I'm really nervous about your baptism as the church normally dunks six-week-olds into fonts while they are sleeping-or at least halfway milk-drunk from feeding. You, my dear child, no longer sleep or exhibit any signs of "milk drunkeness". In fact, your walking skills exhibit all the signs of "alcohol drunkeness". The priest suggested "timely scheduling" of the baptism as for it to be "conducive" to your compliance. I had to stop myself from helpfully suggesting the age of 35. I really dont' know any 11-month-olds who "schedule" their compliance. In fact, I've known you almost a whole year and the only thing you really "schedule" is your 8pm high pitched request for someone to dump you in bed with a bottle of Jack-spiked Good Start and a new episode of "Bones" on the television. (Wait, that might be me.)

I'm taking his statement to mean that he wants us to dose you with Benadryl, or heroin. Whichever is more readily available. I informed him at the "pre-meeting" that I could not promise you wouldn't dive head first into the baptism font upon its first appearance. That you might have a few requests...Like, could he let you toot into it and then giggle? Maybe have a few rubber duckies floating in it? A full body massage with Burt's Bees baby lotion when you were done? You are used to this over-the-top spa treatment at home whenever there is an activity with water involved. There is also usually lots of splashing...and maybe some pee (I can't SEE the pee but I just assume you get the same urge everyone else does immediately upon sitting in warm water).

I've been racked with anxiety all week wondering what we are going to do about this whole “pouring water on the head” thing. Eventually, I realized I was just going to have to hand it over to God. How freaking ironic, right? So, Parksie, I hope Jesus makes you act right this weekend. Please don’t fart in the baptismal font.

Your GG bought a cake and everything.

Love you Tooter Bug,

LG, The Mother Of Parks

Dear Parks,

So, here we are. Two days down and.....well, several more to go. Sorry I can’t be more exact, but I don't count well at all. I don't do ANY kind of math well actually. That's why I currently work in the humanities field. Your mother only made 2 "B's" in her entire school career-from kindergarten to graduate degree. One of those "B's" was in the 5th grade when we were studying fractions. I just didn't understand them. And, I can honestly tell you that I still do not give two WHOLE craps about whether or not I have two PARTS of freaking anything-unless we're down to 1/5 of a 1/5 of gin. Then I just know we're screwed. Especially if your Auntie Elizabeth comes to visit.

The other “B”, you ask?

Well, let me tell you a little story about that other “B”.

It was 1995. Oh yeah, I’m going THERE.

Picture it… flannel button-up shirts from J Crew, lots of hiking boots, copious amounts of Cobain-induced angst-ridden poetry, and a ridiculously whole lot of “Indigo Girls” listening.

Your mother was 19 and a sophomore in college. Her life….it was a-changing.

Previous to 1995 your mother- while cool in her own special way- was still the same sack of nerd that graduated from high school thinking having a beer on Saturday night at “The Edge” (NOT a bar, mind you, but a back road that went off behind one of the levees surrounding the Mississippi River) with twenty other of my classmates was a HEATHEN and UNACCEPTABLE thing to do. Your mother owned her VERY OWN COPY of the 6 VHS tape series of the original BBC filming of Pride and Prejudice. That kind of nerdy runs deep and doesn’t disappear very quickly. I went to college with a lot of the same ideas. As such, my freshman year was extremely “vanilla”. Because your mother really didn’t know any other way to be.

It took me until my sophomore year to figure out that if you didn’t go to class, PEOPLE DID NOT CARE. Your head wouldn’t spontaneously burst into flames and your skin turn inside out. They wouldn’t call Nana and she wouldn’t come prance me around the quad wearing a placard reading “SLACKER”***

(Take note: You are NOT ALLOWED to skip class in college, young lady. Because, unlike Nana, I WILL come prance you around the quad with a placard reading “SLACKER” and I’d add “AND SHE HAS BIG MOLES IN WEIRD PLACES” just to freak out any cute guys that, like, TOTALLY have crushes on you.)

Slightly into sophomore year, while living on my sorority hall, I started hanging out with the “bad” girls that lived at the “End of The Hall”. We even called ourselves the “End of the Hall” girls. We were the WILD girls. We were the girls that bought 40 oz beers and took back roads and wrote poetry. We skipped class and drove to New Orleans for concerts with no place to stay. The Earth had opened up and your mother had found her coolness. It was drinking wine out of a box while breaking into people’s farms just to chase their chickens. It was listening to “Least Complicated” with the windows rolled down and screaming spontaneously written poems into the flat darkness. It was Delta Joie De Vie.

It was sometime during these semesters that you mother learned the art of funneling beer, napping through most daylight hours, and the intricacies of the University’s mandatory minimum attendance policy. It was while “learning” these policies that I discovered a grade could be dropped simply for lacking to show up to a certain percentage of classes. Unfortunately, I had a 2pm elective that hit right in the middle of the required daily nap that kept my inner poet alive on the roads at night. This class was KILLING my “joie”. I remember attempting to separate my face from my pillow most Wednesday afternoons around 1:30pm and it seemingly magnetically being pulled back to the coolness of the pillow case. It was too much responsibility for any one person to be expected to handle. So, I eventually stopped even trying. Sleeping blissfully, I let myself give up any guilt attached to my cutting.

Due to my lack of showing up, my grade was reduced from an “A” to a “B” and there was nothing I could do about it. I even tried telling the teacher the one about having to have an ovary removed due to THE LARGEST CYST ANY DOCTOR HAS EVER SEEN. You know, the one that worked TWICE on my psychology professor who wore purple Birkenstocks and thought all female organs were sacred and should be worshipped on corners. This teacher, on the other hand, was 73-years old and still wore booty shorts to class that-with a suntan pair of control top hose worn underneath-made her legs look still half-way to rocking. This was not the type of woman that swooned when one used the term "vagina" freely and spoke damningly of female goddess exclusion from mainstream religion. She had frosted hair and tanned extensively. She wore red lip stick and lots of spandex tops that glittered subtley in the light reflecting off her silver tipped hair. Honestly, she made me throw up a little in my hand. Although, the times I did attend class I really can’t tell you if the strong urge to vomit was from the 70-year-old wearing the booty shorts or the actual alcohol I had ingested the night previously. I’m going to blame the 70-year-old. But, that’s beside the point.

I tell you this long and somewhat pointless story so that you will laugh less-and respect your mother more- when you hear the actual NAME of the class that I made a “B” in. A task so FOUL, I obviously found it just as difficult to figure out as fractions.

The class was aptly named, “Walking 101”.

It was a class in which one walked.

In circles.

Around a gym.

For one hour.

Basically what I’m saying is that in your tenth month of life you seem to have mastered a skill your mother had issues with at a college level. As the typical new parent’s response to their child’s mastery of something they find extremely difficult, I’m going to say the one thing I’ve been dying to say since you were born, “YOU ARE A GENIUS! I EFFING KNEW IT!”

Love,
Mama



***Not that Nana ever did that. Nana doesn’t make scenes…unless it’s unintentional and she’s just trying to prove someone wrong. Then Nana will make a scene. We’ll discuss this more later the first time she takes you to a car dealership, holds her hand up in front of the salesman’s face BEFORE HE UTTERS A WORD and says, “Are there any WOMEN that sell cars here?” Then, when I mortify you in public at the age of 16 you will understand it’s genetic……and medication won’t do a damn thing for it.

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

Dear Parks,

You are going to be nine-months-old in ten days and I realized that I haven’t written a monthly letter in quite a few months. I’ll blame that on the lack of sleep and increase in legal medications.

I can’t believe that you have been outside in this world almost as long as you were inside of me. That makes me sad in some ways. Like, this big bad world will be WINNING in some way a few weeks from now. That can’t happen. Just ask your father how much I enjoy a good competition. If it were up to me I’d try to find a way to stuff you back in and carry you around for a few more years just so I would WIN. I don’t know exactly what I would win-other than some pretty nasty stretch marks and bad case of urinary incontinence. But, it isn’t what you get that matters. It’s just that you actually WIN. The preceding three sentences will probably also explain to you later in life why I will beat you soundly without apology at any board games we might play despite you being a hapless toddler/kid/adolescent.

I come from a long line of WINNERS. My Mamaw, your great-grandmother, taught me to play poker and scrabble at the ripe old age of 5 and no matter how cute or innocent I was, she beat me every single time until I finally honed my skills enough to win fair and square. And, let me tell you, there are some days I still can’t repeat that beat down and she’s now eighty and deaf and blind. Your Mamaw can still play a mean game of poker. She’s like Helen Keller in Vegas.

You yourself are working on a very good poker face. In the past few months you have learned enumerable new skills and are using them to deftly manipulate your father and me into pretty much giving you whatever you want. As soon as you realized that crawling let you get wherever you needed to go without depending upon us to put you there, you immediately begin to refuse to be held and cuddled. Nay, I need a word stronger than “refuse”. When we pick you up off the floor to take away whatever object you’ve decided must enter your mouth you flail, push, and yell your desire to be dropped back upon your four appendages so you can take off again. If this doesn’t happen within a predetermined amount of time, the wailing begins. And, let me tell you, when the wailing starts you will often take “drama” to new heights by wailing until you choke yourself on your own spit. If it didn’t hurt our ears so much, we would laugh more. People openly remark about the drama of this scream. I’m almost proud as I know you get this proclivity towards the dramatic from me. I’ve wailed enough times in my life to notice the similarities in my progeny. Pretty soon this wailing will be replaced with creative forms of cursing and writing on bathroom walls. When it does, I will consider my work here done.

This past month you’ve taken to entertaining yourself by grabbing fistfuls of either of our hair and then yelling like Mel Gibson in “Braveheart” right before battle. It is very deep and throaty and victorious-and somewhat delicious. Sometimes you yell like that just to yell. We tell ourselves you are simply testing your decibel levels. I can’t tell you how much I love it. It makes me laugh and feel like you are strong and independent. I have no idea what kind of woman you will be when you grow up, but I can tell right now that it will be one that doesn’t take shit off anyone. And just as a side note, that whole “pulling hair” thing will serve you well all the way thru high school-especially with the bitchy girls.

We started attempting to transition you from co-sleeping to your crib in the past month. This happened with more urgency than we originally planned as last weekend included our very first trip to the ER with you after you fell off the bed while taking a nap. You turned out to be fine as you seemed to have inherited your father’s extremely large and hard head. But, it scared the beejesus out of the both of us and we agreed that you sleeping in your crib must happen sooner rather than later.

The first few nights this happened with such ease that we led ourselves to believe that “This whole transitioning thing is a breeze. We are genius parents. Look at us parenting our well-adjusted child so effortlessly and seamlessly.” Then the second week of the transition hit and we finally realized that we were not in control of this situation at all.

It’s like you thought “Well, I can handle this whole crib thing for about a week. But, any longer than that and I’m going to have to file a grievance with the parenting committee”.

You filed that grievance last night. We ran into your room at the sound of cries so horrific we thought for sure part of your face had fallen off, only to find you gripping the sides of the crib and hiking a leg up making somewhat of an attempt at a jail break. There’s no way you can actually get over the side of the crib, but you were going to try goddamnit…and you were going to scream while you did it.

Your father was convinced that something had to be wrong with you considering the noises that were coming from your mouth until I picked you up and you immediately stopped crying and actually grinned and giggled. This scenario repeated itself for two hours and included at least one attempt by your father and I to let you “cry it out”. You don’t “Cry It Out”. You “Cry OUT”. Then you choke on your own spit and start making spastic noises that should only be coming from someone having a seizure. I should have known this wasn’t going to work as the last time we made any attempt at letting you “self-soothe” you shit your pants so bad it shot up your back and out the neck hole of your shirt. You get this from me. I always get diarrhea when I’m upset or nervous. I pre-apologize for the rest of your life for all of the time you will spend on the toilet the first day of the school year, right before a big test, or when you have a really hot date. Hell, your father went to New Orleans this past week for four days and I got so excited the day he was coming home that I still had to stop and poop four times. You come by this naturally.

When you finally realized that we weren’t giving up on the crib thing you allowed both of us to cuddle with you while we rocked you back to sleep. This was a delight to both your father and I as your strong independent streak makes these moments so rare. I was actually holding you while you cuddled into my chest and I stroked your head and looked at your dad and said, “This is so sweet”. He looked at me and said, “I know. I’m jealous”. So, we traded places and you burrowed into his chest and he stroked your head for a while until you finally drifted off. It’s the moments like that I know I will remember when you are thirteen and demanding a body piercing and an 18-year-old boyfriend named “Skeeter” be allowed to stay over.

It’s these moments that will keep us from killing you when you wreck the car at seventeen or stay out past curfew and call us “shitheads”. It’s these moments that help me to understand why people say being a parent is the hardest thing on Earth but there are tiny moments of it that will scar your soul with love so strong you won’t ever be the same.








You have made every child my child. And I can never thank you enough for that.

Love,
Mama

Dear Parks,

SLEEP. A REALLY WHOLE LOT.


Love,

Mama

Dear Parks,

Right about the time that I wrote the previous letter that damn brand new computer up and died on me. Can you believe that? It's not because Mom dropped it. I know it's not. Because it worked fine after I dropped it. It was a full twelve hours later the backlight went out.

So now, Mom is operating a new, brand new laptop. Turns out that Sheeba was actually discontinued in the thirty days since Nana purchased it. I bet I know why...people can't drop them without the backlight going out. People need to be able to drop their computers from time to time. And pour wine on them and use them as a plate. Things like this are important.

You are currently napping and its twenty degrees outside. I haven't bathed and your father is out running errands-pretty much a regular exciting Wednesday-off-work-because-the-City-of-Jackson-doesn't-have-water around here. The past two weeks have been extremely busy as we've finally moved into our new house in Fondren.

There are now lots of bathrooms and extra rooms that confuse you. You still wake up and look around with this confused look on your face and then quickly look for me and your Dad as if to say, "Man, I REALLY shouldn't have taken that roofie last night." I hear ya, kid.

This past month has been crazy in general and not just because it was "Baby's First Christmas". Mainly because your father and I decided that we were going to take two weeks off of work and-during that very, very, VERY short two weeks-we would take a week long trip to Florida with a six-month-old, celebrate THREE family Christmases and move. Yes, we were obviously feeling a little grandiose-and that is only one part of your parent's shared mental illnesses. That decision only capped off a year where we got married, had you, and changed jobs. What are we, CRAZY? I'll tell you what we are...TIRED.

You're about the only reason we haven't collapsed. And that's only because you demand it. That and you're so damn cute its hard not staying awake just to stare at you.

Just this morning you woke up at 7am (like usual) and you quietly played and kicked me in the stomach accepting a paci (officially known as a 'fighter' in this house) until 8:45am when you decided it was high time for us to get up and feed you. Then you wailed in an octave only dogs can hear and the day began. We then got up and gave you a "Ba Ba Jones". Your father coined that term and I can only suppose the reasoning behind it being something like those bottles are so important to you that they obviously deserved a formal surname. I would have gone with "Ba Ba Wellington"-or something of that nature-seeing as how they are so expensive, named after a doctor, and contain a forumla so costly it beats my weekly wine and gin intake. Wellington is much better suited for a bottle of that nature-but I digress. We then take you to your room, change your "booty cover" (Mama coined that one...I think the reason why is pretty obvious), and try to find some clothing not crusted with sweet potatoes and the sweat of a thousand tiny baby pores. We then attempt to entertain you for approximately twelve hours until its time for you to go back to sleep.

All of these very simple things are contained in a pretty typical morning around here unless its one of those days when your father and I obviously prayed, held our mouth right, and garnered favor with The Gods when you sleep until 8:30am and we can actually get up and bathe before you awaken and began summoning the neighborhood dogs.

All in all, the three of us have found a comfortable routine to this new life. It amazes me every day how much you are growing and how quickly it is happening and how much that breaks my heart-even when you are wailing.

I probably shouldn't tell you that we lovingly refer to you as "The Kracken" at times.

One day you will get that and think its funny. I promise.

This is you when you discovered you could sit up on your hands.



This is what your father does in his spare time at work.



We can only explain your fascination with shells and cheese as it being a hold over from my pregnancy when about 90% of your nutrition came from the box of shells and cheese I ate 5 out of 7 nights every week. We also don't feed you a lot and encourage you to play with plastic bags and electrical outlets.



You absolutely ADORE sweet potatoes. I feed them to you almost every night. CORRECTION: I smear them on your face. Then you laugh.




Love you Tootle Bug,
Mama

Dear Parksie,

I’m writing you this letter at Christmas because Santa came to Mama’s house and brought her a new laptop. Santa rocks hard. One day you will figure out that Santa’s name is “Nana” and I’ll be the one holding you while you cry about that. Although, I will admit there are some upsides to that. Nana dresses better and is less hairy. Santa doesn’t frequent Chico’s as much as Nana.

I think somewhere along the line I neglected to mention that Mama got crazy one day when she was pregnant with you and dropped her laptop, cord side down, on the floor. Seems the good old fashioned Dell (Or, as your Dad called it “the battle field response unit” due to all the food that was encrusted on its screen and the red wine inbetween the keys) that housed everything that Mama has ever written was made before they figured out you shouldn’t route the motherboard of the computer straight into the cord outlet. What’s that you say? Yes, I agree. I can’t believe the retards that ever made computers did that either. Because when you drop the thing cord side down and the cord, understandably, jams into the computer, it will fuck up the entire thing. In fact, it will fuck it up so good it will lose everything you’ve ever written (Yes, this does include eight chapters of Mama’s first book and every column she ever got published). This ultimately resulted in Mama getting on lots of medication and going a little crazy. Mama shortly figured out that writing made her at least half sane. And, well, not really having an accessible outlet to do that resulted in a little crazy going down at the Garrott house from time to time. But, thankfully-after almost a year of catching a computer and internet access when I could-“Santa” fixed all that and Mom’s sitting on a hot little piece of Toshiba Midnight Breeze with a Fusion Finish and a 16 inch screen. One day you will understand that and-if I’ve raised you correctly-you will be just as excited as Mama is.

You turned six months old two weeks ago and now you’re old enough to start housing your own brand of crazy. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it is to watch this unfold before me. You already have your picadillos and your ideas about how life should work out. Most of these focus on your needs being met immediately and any human within ten feet of you worshipping you like the goddess you believe yourself to be. I will go ahead and readily admit you get this from me. You are your mother-already. Or maybe Mama was just a six-month-old until she was 32. Who knows?

You dislike loud noises and discord and will cry if anyone raises their voice around you. You hate being in a room by yourself and love to stare out of windows and watch trees wave in the wind. The cats can stop you in your tracks and give you a case of the giggles. You smile at everyone. If fact, you smile so much people mention it openly when they’ve been around you-“Does she just smile all the time?” I hasten to tell them that you do lose your shit from time to time…but not a lot…and not without reason-like poop, or needing more sleep, or wishing the New Kids On The Block never got back together. Mostly very important things.

You are, of course,unmentionably beautiful to me. When you smile my skin tingles. I sleep next to you and your smell is heady and comforting. My body recognizes it as “like” and its something I can’t explain with words. I want to kiss you all the time and keep you under my arm. If will could cause your chest to rise and fall you would never stop breathing. Watching you become a “person” is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced.

Its in the way you spread your toes wide and sigh when I take off your socks at the end of a day. Its when I ask you, “Do you want Ba-Ba?” and you actually giggle and say something that sounds like “Yeeeeeh.” Its when you wake up in the morning and the first thing you do is prop yourself up on your hands and grin at me like you’ve just won five straight hands of poker and the hooker is on her way to the hotel room. Its in the way you fight naps like a tiger but when you finally give up will put your arms around my neck and lay your head down on my shoulder with a resigned sigh. Its you, kiddo. You’re cooler than shit.

It doesn’t hurt that you cut your first two teeth the day after Thanksgiving (the two bottom center) and when you grin you look a little like a drunken homeless man that’s just found a box of wine and a brand new cardboard box. I’d give you anything for that grin.

You get angry. You get excited. You get happy. You get sad. You get scared. You get sleepy. Most of all, you are just you. And I can’t wait for every day that I get to discover what the rest of “you” is like.

Love you and Merry Christmas,
Mama

P.S. Hopefully letters will get much more frequent now that “The Sheeba” is here.

La Vie En Rose

Dear Parks,

I name this entry after an old French song for a couple of reasons-one because I feel it fitting to describe the past month of your life. You turned four-months-old last Friday and while your father, at times, exclaims frustrated, “She cries 80% of the time,” I am your mother. I do understand that being your mother probably gives me a slightly rose-tinted view of you and how you act. But, to me, you are full of goddamn awesome-ness. I know your dad feels this way as well because he only screams about your screaming when your screaming has almost made me scream and with the amount of Xanax I take on a daily basis-that’s a lot of screaming. The other reason I name this entry this has to do with how this song makes me feel. It reminds me of skipping in sunshine and sidewalks I’ve never walked drenched in smells I have yet to smell. You do the same. Despite the screaming

What I find amusing about this situation is the fact that I’m awfully glad that the Powers That Be didn’t give us a “normal” baby. I say “normal” because everybody that meets you says you are the most laid-back “chill-laxed” child they have ever seen. And I must admit that most days you sit back and enjoy the ride that is your current life. You handle things much better than your mother and father. Sometimes, while we are both freaking out around you, you just lay back and smile really big and if you didn’t look exactly like my grandmother, I would wonder where you came from. Large amounts of anxiety should be hitting you genetically from every single side of your DNA. How are you escaping this? And if your takin’ something on the side, you should really let Mama in on it.

Last night your father walked in and told me he had some “really bad news”-and other than your head suddenly exploding from the amount of formula you are currently scarfing-there really wasn’t one single thing I could think of about you that could be “bad news”. It was at this point he decided to inform me that you were not my baby. For half a second, I totally believed him. After all, you enjoy watching football and will sit in your own poop and smile for whole minutes at a time. These are all traits of your father.

This month you learned to roll your tongue and hum. You talk to us in a little bird-y voice trilling your “rrrr’s” in this extremely pleasant tone with a big smile on your face. When I roll my “rrrrr’s” and answer you in the same way your eyes get huge and its like you just realized I’m not mentally retarded and can actually speak-instead of just stare at you and grin insipidly. Then, when you realize that the gin and tonic I’m pretty sure you asked for isn’t on the way like you wanted, you start screaming and realize that English is a shit language that the rest of the world doesn’t speak anyway. I’m expecting you to start asking for a bottle in Spanish because-after all-it’s a much more useful language and your early mastery of the rolling of “rrrrr’s” gives you a leg up.

About three weeks ago you discovered the remote control and JESUS CHRIST I can’t explain your love for it. Sometimes your dad will hand you over when you are screaming and will quickly leave the room to give his ears a break from the deafening wails and when the room immediately becomes quiet upon his vacating it, he will walk back in to see what magical “mommy trick” I have pulled from my repertoire to quiet the desperate wailing. It is then that he will see me sitting on the couch waving the remote control in front of your face while you purse your lips, bounce up and down, and scream, “Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh” like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your father will then call me a cheap whore for using electrical appliances to keep you entertained. Whatever it takes, kid, whatever it takes. That’s our main parental philosophy at this point.

We are what is called a “baby-led” household. You eat when you want, you sleep when you want and you poop when you want. We do what you want (except sticking forks in electrical appliances. We only allow that after six months of age-or until you at least grow enough hair to make it entertaining). We also “co-sleep” “Co-sleeping” basically means you sleep in-between us with all of your appendages flung out to the far corners of the bed. This relegates your father and me to tiny portions on opposite sides of the mattress teetering on the edges. We don’t care. You sleep ten hours straight at night and for that, my dear child, you could sleep on top of me and periodically spit up IN MY MOUTH. I don’t care. This arrangement also conveniently prevents unwanted siblings which I'm sure makes us both happy at this point.

Getting nine hours of sleep a night has allowed your mother to not only have a baby and return to work. But, it has allowed me to decide to change jobs and take on one that is much more challenging and full of responsibility. You know, because getting married and having a baby in one year wasn’t enough. I blame this all on a rush of post-delivery hormones that forced me to believe I was a super competent adult who could actually “have it all”. This is still up in the air. But, things are looking promising. And, every day that you are actually ALIVE proves that we must be doing something right.

Your GG takes pictures of you during the day and sends them down the street to the Kroger to get processed and then gives them to your father when he picks you up after work. I’m appreciative of that as I wasn’t sure that real hard copies of pictures actually still existed until your GG started doing this. Every time she gives us a new picture I marvel and marvel at how much you are starting to resemble my grandmother. I mean, minus the mustache. Thankfully, there seems to be less of the hairy Italian genes in you as you are half-bald and sorely lacking any other body hair (let’s go ahead and thank the Baby Jesus that the hair on your butt you were born with finally fell out. I was really concerned about your marriageability for a while there and thought we might just have to build a house out in back for you to live in and hire someone to come monthly and wax your back-like my Uncle Jimmy)

Other than looking just like your great-grandmother, you smile just like my brother; you have my hands, your Nana’s hair, and your father’s eyes and toes. You are a delightful mix of everything that’s ever happened before you ever got here. Life is, right now, la vie en rose.

One day you will make fun of me for all this horrible old time-y music I listen to and I look forward to every minute of it. After all, things aren’t nearly as much fun as they will be when I teach you to cuss and we are finally on even ground.

Love,
Mama