Letters to the O

Letters to the O

Thirty One Months

We began this month of your life with a weekend camping trip. It was dirty, it was difficult and gosh darn it, it was almost fun. Your Dad and I spent a great deal of time camping and enjoying the quiet, simple reflection it provides before you came along. Camping with you is a different sort of experience. One that involves a certain level of grossness and constant management. The reward though is your honest admiration of scenery, your mimicked contemplation of the fire, and watching you read yourself stories in the tent and fall asleep by the glow of your flashlight.

After a quick trial run up at camping in our old stomping grounds in Liberty at North Fork park, we embarked on our marathon 11 day trip to Crater Lake, the Redwoods, and Yosemite. This was the longest and most ambitious bout of camping we'd attempted since our cross country trip and certainly the longest trip we'd taken with you anywhere. It had the potential to be disastrous. Hiking, camping, minimal access to proper hygiene and a diaper wearing toddler.

What happened in fact was that you were pretty amazing and so was the trip. We had some tough times in camp though. You fell of the same picnic table bench three times in one night because it was slightly sloped and got a mouthful of dirt. It took some time before you understood that driving your dump trucks by in a cloud of dust next to my kitchen supplies and food was a bad idea. You also had a hard time understanding why when your cup or a piece of food fell onto the ground it became toxic and off limits. And eventually you realized that until you had been cleaned by a barrage of baby wipes, you were not allowed to touch anything but most especially not me and not Dad.

But you learned to hike on our trip. We strapped a mini backpack on you and encouraged you to walk. This was slightly painful since your pace ranged from molasses to snail, but well worth the effort in patience since you were damn heavy to carry. You enjoyed the independence and frequently sassed back when we urged you to get moving,

"I coming! Stop talking to me."

Back at home, independence is your newest motivation and you've learned to get dressed, put on your shoes and brush your own teeth, more or less successfully. Dad and I marvel though that unlike some other unreasonable toddlers, you're not eager to try things beyond your capabilities. If we offer to let you hold something on the way to the store checkout that turns out to be too heavy to handle, you easily and cheerfully surrender it as if it say, "Here. I'm a kid. This isn't that fun. You do it."

Your vocabulary has exploded in the last month and your language skills are so impressive, Dad and I are certain we have the most expressive toddler on the planet. You use words like opportunity, necessary, frustrating and absolutely in your everyday conversation. This makes it all the more aggravating when you break down into tears and we can't get any more explanation than a murmur of words behind the wailing. Talk, god damn it. And stop being two. Geesh.

Sometimes Dad and I worry that maybe because you hang out with adults so much and your language is so advanced, that we expect too much of you. That we'll create an environment that's too serious, where you'll grow up much sooner than you should. And every time we worry, you convince us it's okay by breaking down into long sessions of total goofiness and giggling. Recently I took you to watch Dad go-kart race and you were playing with one of the little boys there, Jack. Jack is just a few months older than you and you adore him, following him like a shadow. You and Jack were leaning up against the glass, not even watching the race. You were both mimicking funny faces against the glass and breaking out into peals of giggles at each others obscure and creative silly noises. It made me smile to watch you be absolutely comfortable and happy in both worlds- adult and toddler- and know you would make friends no matter where life led you.

Letters to the O

Thirty Months

This month I became convinced that you are the most articulate two year old the world has ever known. Your father and I are constantly amazed by both your ability and your complete inability to verbalize your emotions and experiences. When you are conveying something specific, you are serious and almost always speak in complete sentences,

"Mommy, we are going to turn left at the light. We are in traffic. There are lots of cars everywhere and some are parked. Green means go."

And then five seconds later you could become an inarticulate puddle of goo because you've lost one of your cups and you want the "breen" one and not the blue one. And it's all you can do to simply blubber "Breen...breen...breen."

Because you have complete dominion and power over your surroundings, I often look up and realize you have abandoned me and I find you outside, wandering about the yard. Recently you gave me a heart attack by falling down the back stairs. You came up bruised and bloody but unscathed and you spent less time crying about the incident than I did.

You've also begun to exhibited control in other ways. Like holding food in your mouth and refusing to swallow until it becomes a saliva saturated, disgusting ball that once resembled food. This drives me INSANE. Seriously. Swallow the damn thing- what's the big deal? I used to think you did it just with new foods or food you didn't like but now you've begun to exhibit it with mundane items like oatmeal. Just to piss me off.

We've been half heartedly trying potty training but you seem to have no serious misgivings about peeing in your diaper... or the floor... or outside. But after recently purchasing a box of diapers at Costco for $40 (FORTY dollars !!!) I've decided this an effort definitely worthy of my energy. Right after our trip to Cancun and that shopping spree on Rodeo Drive, I am totally going to buy myself a sticker chart and commit to sitting around the bathroom with you for hours on end.

Just today I was bustling around the house, folding laundry and putting away dishes and getting ready to start dinner. I had walked away from you into the bedroom and I must have been talking to either you or the dogs and my tone communicated frustration. You came running into the bedroom and yanked on my pant leg.

"Mama, did you say Jesus?"

And that's when I knew that two hours of painful pushing- absolutely worth it.

Letters to the O

Twenty-Nine Months

The beginning of this past month was a rough one. You started out with a monumental case of diarrhea. And no matter how much we tried, we couldn't convince you we weren't purposefully trying to cause you distress. When Dad or I would put you up on the changing table for the 8th time that morning, you would cry and wail and beg-"Please, leave my butts alone!" Once, when I was describing why it was necessary to put ointment on your blistered butt, you leaned over to talk to your butt.

"It's otay, butt. Don't cry."

Early on this month you also got to spend a weekend at Grandma's while Daddy and I hiked in Zion. Even though you weren't feeling well, apparently you and Grandma got along fabulously and when she dropped you off, complete with an entire box full of new toys, you seemed to have been thoroughly spoiled and adored. You were quiet for the first hour in the car on the way home, as if you weren't sure exactly who we were. That didn't last long.

You've finally begun to expand your culinary horizons. We were at a restaurant with Ken and Holly when they were in town and you ate pizza. And then later that same day-ice cream! I discovered recently that you finally understood the value of bribery. At this point in our house, we have an exchange rate. One piece of meat= one cookie. 10 blueberries= one cookie.

Perhaps it's all this experimentation with food or your earlier brush with intestinal discomfort, but whatever the reason you seem to occasionally be constipated. Thinking that ointment is the cure for all things wrong with your butt, you beg me to apply some when you're uncomfortable. I've tried to describe to you that the problem is not located in your butt but more in the vicinity of your stomach and is more likely to be solved by fruit. So far, you're not buying it. You're also not buying into the myth that you should be using the toilet for any of these activities. You'll occasionally be motivated to pee or poop in the potty but for the most part, your interests are more closely aligned with forklifts. Recently, when I was changing you, you informed me you would never eat poop. Cool, glad to hear it. Fear of you being the kid in the back of the room in kindergarten eating his own feces- totally alleviated.

You've also learned how to open doors. You've been able to close them for some time, but not open them. This created its own problems and sometimes called for rescue operations when you'd shut yourself down in the basement or garage. But I greatly prefer that situation to the one we have now, where nothing is off limits. Your favorite door to manipulate is the back door and you are constantly trying to control the traffic flow of the dogs. They must be in, they must be out, they must sleep with you, they must be glad to have your fingers jabbed into their eyes. I think for the first time you're experimenting with the idea that you may be able to control not just your environment, but those two stupid hairballs who live here. Apparently the concept is a total high.

You and Dad recently started playing a little game. It goes something like this. Dad loves to hear you say "I''m not a little bear" because he thinks it is cute. So he devises ways to make you say it over and over. At first, you would scowl and protest and be truly insulted. "I not a bear. I Owen!" Towards the end of the month, you had resigned yourself. "Yeah. I'm a little bear." Can I go back to playing now?

We took you to see some monster trucks and a fireworks show recently as part of a local festival. And silly me, I totally forgot that you might hate things exploding in the sky in the dark and find them scary. You clung to me and whimpered and asked to go home at first. But as Dad and I began to talk about the pretty colors in the sky and name them, you agreed to at least take a look and show off your knowledge of shapes and colors. You didn't release your death grip though and I have to confess that despite the 30 pound lump attached to my chest, it was the best fireworks show I've ever seen. Just earlier in the day we had given you a buzz cut for the first time. And the way it made your mischievous smile and expressive eyes so prominent made me feel like you were someone else's two year old brat, another future menace to society. But as we sat under the night stars while colors splattered the sky and I held you close, I knew you were content to sit there, afraid, as long as you were anchored to me. Your father sat close by, tussling your hair and holding your hand and murmuring to you and it made me glad that we all had each other.

Letters to the O

Twenty-Eight Months

There's no doubt about it now. You are such a little boy. And it's not just because you seem to walk around half the day with your hands stuffed into your waistband. I feel somehow as if you began this month as an older version of the toddler I once knew. But each day has slipped past me, a thousand small milestones. And now you are irrevocably yourself.

You are entirely messy. Every time I looked at you this month you had smears of breakfast or stripes of dirt across your cheek. No matter how many times I washed and scrubbed, you always seemed crusty. And yet, while you are oblivious to any sense of yourself as a walking disaster area, you are acutely aware of and intolerant of anyone else's mess. After upending an open box of tapioca accidentally from the pantry, you spent nearly half an hour with a dustpan and broom, scanning the kitchen floor for the minute white pearls. A project that would surely have driven me insane in less than five seconds kept you enthralled.

You are also passionately devoted to your dump truck. You use it to haul your matchbox cars from room to room and even outside, where you stack them along the fence or under the slide and spend long hours imagining car conversation. The new nightly ritual is for you to gather all your cars in the dump truck. You drive them to your bedroom, then haul each one out, kissing it good night and calling it by name.

"Good Night, Shelby Cobra. Good Night, Monster Truck."

They are then deposited for a long, uncomfortable sleep on top of the bureau and immediately loaded back into the dump truck in the morning for another day of fun on wheels.

You have become stubbornly independent as well. And damn bossy. You recently discovered how to open the back screen door and let both yourself or the dogs outside. This has literally opened up a whole new world for you. One in which you can control whether or not you are outside. And like every kid since the dawn of time, you would prefer to spend every waking hour there, trolling around the yard. What's worse is that you demand that the dogs join you, no matter how hot or miserable they seem to be. If they dare to sneak inside against your wishes, you stomp up the stairs, swatting at them and pointing, demanding furiously that they "Get Owside!"

All of these blossomed mental and physical abilities have their pay off. I now know you are old enough to be called out on your bullshit. You speak in full sentences and actively negotiate every waking moment to manipulate what you want out of it. So trying to convince me that you didn't understand my simple directions for not throwing that toy down the stairs- kind of a long shot. But you're still at that magical age where counting works. And I don't have to have a consequence yet.
"I need you to come to the bedroom to get changed and you have until I count to ten to meet me there."
Typically by the time I get to 8, you come running. What happens when I get to 10? Dear god. Does anyone really want to find out?

You are now required to clean up on at least a daily basis, but for some reason you often refuse to pick up the plastic play balls that came with your tunnel set. Oh don't get me wrong. You love to scatter them about the room for other people to trip on and then leave. But getting all fifty of them back into the basket they came from? Such a nuisance. The other day I asked you to and you refused. I put you in a chair and told you not to get up until you were ready to clean up. You promptly got back up, turned to me and said,
"No, mama. I not clean up. You do. Mama do. You clean up. See you later."
And you ran down the hall.

Five minutes later you were picking up those damn balls. How does that work? I'll never tell. But let's just say the real secret is how I kept from bursting out laughing to begin with.

Letters to the O

Twenty-seven Months

This month you demonstrated that all those bad habits your Dad and I indulged in around you when you were small made an impression. Yeah, you were totally listening and taking notes. I've begun taking you back to the library and one day, you were VERY reluctant to leave. When I forced the issue you decided to honor my delicate sensibilities with a tantrum in the middle of the library lobby. Back at home, your mood remained cloudy. I sat you up on the counter and we baked some cookies. You were ready for a taste long before the batter was prepared and when I encouraged patience, you clenched your fists.

"God damn it, mama!" You yelled, red faced.

You've been very mischievous the last few weeks and one of your favorite activities is to terrorize the dogs. You use your wooden block cart or metal dump truck as a battering ram and chase them around the house, giggling at their panic. To be fair though, you're equally delighted when Miles agrees to chase you and usually you're giggling so hard you can't find the coordination to run so you crumple into a little ball, hiding your face from the formidable licking.

I was delighted when you started eating cheese this week. I know that sounds strange, because you have been eating cheese since you could chew. But let's be clear about this. Cheese previously was only acceptable if it was melted and sandwiched between two slices of bread slathered with butter and browned. Simply no other means of eating cheese in the toddler world apparently. But just recently you discovered that a cold slice of American or Cheddar. Not so bad. Two or three. Even better.

You've also gone into that terrible stage- the one I really have no patience for.
"What's that?" "What's that, mama?"
It doesn't matter how many times you attempt to answer this question as an adult. It's like chasing your own tail. It always comes back around. Sometimes I answer you with "What do you think that is, Owen?" And you stare at me blankly. Wow. This woman really doesn't get it. This is her job. Human dictionary. Get used to it, mama.

Bedtime has suddenly become so complicated. There must be adherence to the routine. Three books, night light on, animals tucked in, and sippy cup in hand with one FRESH ice cube floating in it. Some kids cuddle animals or have favorite blankies that they tow around with them for years. But you- you're a strange one. Your constant companion is a sippy cup. You feel naked without one. And certainly there is no question that you CAN NOT sleep without one by your side, one hand clutched around it's cool plastic all night long.

We also tried the potty training thing earlier this month. While you didn't object much and seemed pretty excited at first, interest quickly waned. One day after Dad came home from work we encouraged you to sit down for awhile and give the new Owen sized potty a try. You did, but quickly decided it was not a productive use of your time.

"Not working, mama." You commented, fidgeting with your penis. "Need a fresh diaper."

When you can actually ask for your own diaper, it seems to me that you ought to be rational enough to see the advantages of not pooping your own pants. But I guess I live in a different world. You know, the one that makes sense most of the time.

Letters to the O

Twenty-Six Months

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that I've fallen in love with you all over again this month. This month you seemed to be able, in some moments, to get past your own irrational needs and grasp towards reason. I can't go outside right this very minute because I have to eat lunch first? "Otay, mommy!" you respond, climbing into your highchair and fastening your own bib. Instead of dissolving into a puddle of tantrum when Dad or I don't understand what you need, you patiently drag us over to assess the situation. See- I threw my matchbox cars behind the toybox- doesn't that suck? Can you help me out here?

This is not to say that you are not still REALLY difficult. This is because you are two. It's like saying because you are a dog, you have a tail. One necessarily follows the other. If A, then B. Logic 101. I took that in college. I think I got a D, but hey. At least I remember some of it.

I'm sure every parent thinks their child is brilliant, and in most case they are completely biased. But seriously, I think you are brilliant. You pour over your books, have mastered all your puzzles and talk in complete sentences most of the time. You are the most CHEERFUL toddler I have ever seen and you're so god damn cordial it's embarrassing. Please, thank you and excuse me come out of your mouth as often as " I need" and "no." The conversations you have with the grocery clerk, the people in line at the post office, the waitress, are more complex than mine. When we go places where there is a decent amount of walking involved, you can be trusted to follow us, closely, cheerfully and without complaint, chattering the entire time as if you're narrating your own personal movie. You're incredibly dramatic these days and every movement, every word is infused with excitement.

I feel a little sad because you seem to have reached a point where you almost prefer playing by yourself. I'll realize it's been nearly an hour since I saw you last and I look around to find you absorbed with your toys, making the pirates take over the parking garage or loading your cars into the dishwasher basket. The other day I found you sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed, reading your bath books and lining up your toys on the ledge of the tub.

You have consented to return to eating some normal foods, including blueberries. The other day you even tried a bite of chili, which was totally weird. You gave me this perplexed look and a few seconds later said, "Hot, mommy, hot!" (Don't worry. It was mild and you were totally exaggerating). I've been having you sit up on the counter and help me bake occasionally which you absolutely adore. You get to lick beaters and eat balls of pie dough and are surprisingly good about not making a total disaster of whatever we're attempting to create.

You've also, sadly, become a little self conscious. We were at Costco the other day waiting in line and a girl came up to us to pre scan our cart. You turned to Daddy, crinkled up your nose and smiling said "Cute, Daddy, cute!" Your bashfulness continued when I hauled you out of the cart and you realized the cashier was also a young woman and you ducked your head and continued to whisper about how cute she was, shooting her glances and trying to catch her eye so you could say hello. I was a little worried a few days later, when I was changing you and you kept on and on about how cute your babysitter, Jesse was. But then earlier this week we were in line at Costco again and you kept trying to pin part of the blueberry wrapper to my shirt.

"You're so cute, Mama!" you said.

Well, that's more like it.

Letters to the O

Twenty- Five Months

I think your Dad summed up our experience this past month raising you very nicely the other day. "You know, he's either really fun or everything totally sucks." Yeah. I feel that.

You have become enthralled with music. Previous to this, you really liked music and would dance to anything that mildly resembled a beat. But now- totally infatuated. White Stripes, Artic Monkeys, CSS and the Fratellis are all favorite bands. When you hear a song you like, you'll get inches from my face and keep repeating "Like this song, Mommy? Like this song?" Until I agree that whatever we are listening to is absolutely wonderful.

One of the coolest things you got for Christmas was a series of Playhut tunnels and tents, which you were only mildly interested in until this month. A few weeks ago you discovered that the large tent, which also serves as a ball pit, was a perfect spot to cram all of your prized possessions into. You would sit on the floor, surrounded by your dump trucks, cars and trains and just bathe yourself in vehicles. Apparently this is the closest to nirvana a two year old can envision. Unfortunately, you would also insist that Dad or I join you. This is a problem because I am more than slightly claustrophobic. But one evening, I even ate dinner in there just so you would SHUT UP about it already.

It has become something of a ritual for you and Dad to chat on the phone while he commutes home and I make dinner. You'll sit and talk with him about your day, shouting and laughing into the speaker phone. The funniest thing though is that on my phone, when you dial Dad, a picture of him pops up on the screen. And you apparently thinks this means that he can see you through the phone. You'll take him to one of your matchbox cars and thrust his phone face at it, exclaiming "Ahhhhhhh!!" And I have to prompt Dad to say something in praise of the car or you'll just keep doing it, taking him from vehicle to vehicle and trying to impress him through the phone.

My favorite thing you have started to do this month is play with your bears. You have two large, overstuffed bears. They are named Boris and Henry. Suddenly one morning you decided they were not so scary and drug them by their ears into the living room. You told me they had "dirty butts" and insisted I put diapers on them both. You favor Boris and continue to drag him around the house, cuddling him, putting him to bed and feeding him food. Sometimes you bring him to me and say "Boris crying!" and you squint your eyes and sniffle as if the sadness Boris feels is somehow contagious. We take turns rubbing his back and reassuring him. And just when I am beginning to feel touched by your tenderness and sensitivity, you get up and throw him down the stairs. Ahhh. There we go. That's the two year old I know.

Letters to the O

Two Years

It's amazing to think we've made it here- a whole two years. With surprisingly little blood shed. Right after Christmas, you contracted a nasty little cold with lots of MUCUS. Lots of it. I think the only thing worse than all the snot and coughing were your monumental tantrums. Your father looked at me at one point and whispered, "Do you think it's permanent?"

Like all men, there is absolutely nothing right with the world when you are ill. You would ask for something to eat, like a graham cracker, and then dissolve into tears and screams when I approached with it. Dear God, no! Not a graham cracker. I meant a gingerbread waffle with whipped cream. Why do you torture me- can't you see I am sick here?

To make matters worse, we got a catastrophic amount of snow and then have been enduring a long, frigid cold snap. You have not played outside in weeks. And the sidewalks are such a mess that in order to go on walks, we have to detour into the road. So beyond occasional trips to the grocery store or out to eat, you have been at home for nearly a month. This may explain why you are only interested in playing with all the things in the house that are potentially dangerous or exclusively adult. Cough drops, lip balm, the caps from my highlighters are all favorite toys these days. That brand new sparkling red Radio Flyer tricycle that sits in the kitchen. So last year. And to make matters worse, you know exactly what it is off limits. And this would be a benefit if you cared. But you'll approach my glasses, shaking your head and saying sternly "No, Owen, no," And you're looking me right in the eye when you pick my glasses up and giggle. Just checking to see if you'd still be pissed...

And then just this last week your cold lifted and so did your mood. You've been sweet and sunny since then. We all hang out at night in the living room, listening to music and wrestling. When you need something you don't melt into a puddle of goo. Instead you take me by the hand,"Come here, Mommy. Help please!" There are still tears and tantrums, but now they have a reasonable precedent. "No, sweetie, you can't dip your matchbox cars in oatmeal and milk and then take them to the sink to wash them off. But how nice of you to ask!"

Just this morning I let you watch "Finding Nemo." Previous to this your imaginative play had been confined to having two cars approach each other.

"Hello. How are you?"
"Good. How are you?"

This could go on for hours. But this morning, as I listened to you play with your trains, I was surprised to hear you call "Watch out, Nemo!" as you made the car twirl and dive towards the floor. When I asked if you were playing Nemo like the movie, you grinned, bashful at being asked but pleased to be understood and nodded your head. And I felt suddenly glad for you- that you had discovered the joy of creating and living in your own world. It made me wonder how much this next year would change you.

Letters to the O

Twenty-Three Months

Would you be insulted if I confessed that this month I've seriously considered standing out in front of Walmart and seeing if I could trade you for something really cool, like a Wii? Because for the last few weeks you have given new meaning to the phrase "incredibly large pain in my ass."

When you first began to talk it was wonderful. Then we moved into the stage of cacophony, when I could locate anywhere in the house by the hum of the noise bubble that seemed to constantly surround you. Now. Now you are belligerent. And repetition and volume are your weapons. When on a walk recently we were passed by the wonder of all wonders, the god of the road, the one and only plow truck. For the remainder of the walk you forlornly screamed "Truck!! Truck!!" at me as if by the sheer force of your will you could make me conjure up the truck. It was somewhat flattering once I understood that you thought I was so totally awesome that I controlled every element of your world, including the snowplow. Hate to break it to you kid. I'm cool. But I'm not THAT cool.

Everything is a drama. That small piece of rice that is stuck to your matchbox car. An absolute disaster. You scream "Oh, no!" and began to run in circles, eventually falling to the ground in a puddle of boy. Your recent version of a tantrum has been to begin to walk backwards, away from whatever is offending you, until you stumble across something and it sends you sprawling to the ground. The reaction to this- outrage and utter amazement. How dare that wall be in your way!

Those people that go places with toddlers and always seem at their wits end, barely under control. That feeling? Totally normal. I've learned that if I have to drag you out of a store, completely limp and petulantly crying, I can simply explain-"He's two." "Ah, yes." I get nods of sympathy, averted eyes. Two. Yeah, that sucks.

You are still, however, enormously charming to strangers. And basically anyone else who isn't responsible for feeding, clothing and loving you. Just today we were at the grocery store and anticipating a tantrum when I removed you from the truck shaped shopping cart (and by the way, whoever thought those things up- brilliant!). So I carried you as quickly as I could to the counter and put you as close as possible to the cashier, who was a woman. You immediately stopped fussing, leaned over with your brightest smile and said "Hello! How are you?" A sucker for tits. Isn't that always the way?

Christmas is just beginning to make sense to you. Trees indoors? Massive amounts of twinkling lights and the constant presence of cookies? What's not to love about that? And we haven't even gotten to the presents part yet. All this past week it's snowed nearly every day and this very event has filled you with joy. If only because your nanny is so extraordinarily wonderful that she takes you out to make snowmen and drags you around out back in your sled.

I think this past month the most frustrating thing for me has been that your language has taken such leaps and bounds that you practically speak in full sentences. But you are ten times more likely to melt into a messy tantrum than to actually tell me what you want. If I had a dollar for every time your Dad or I said, through clenched teeth, "Please use your words!" we could probably go on a vacation far, far away from here and come back when you were like, I don't know- 5?

But I know I would miss the fun stuff. Like when you put on my sweater yourself and wore it all day around the house, letting it trail behind you. Or the way you grab my hand and drag me into living room to play, patting the floor and saying "Sit down, mama." You talk to Daddy for hours on the phone on his way home, launching into epilogues about your day. This is the good stuff and while I know you can't separate the two... god, wouldn't it be great if we could?

Letters to the O

Twenty-Two Months

This month you began potty training with renewed interest. Dad and I were so excited when you managed to poop and pee in the potty several times in ONE day, that we actually ran out and bought a little potty, pullups and a large dose of never neverland. And as soon as we did that, you immediately stopped.

We recently discovered you could count to 20 unprompted. A few weeks ago you launched into a rendition of the ABCs and sang it so perfectly from beginning to end that Dad and I were awed. Since then you've sung it hundreds of times. IN A ROW. I'm sure all that clapping and cheering and smiling we did the first time encouraged this. With each rendition it's gotten a little sloppier until today, when you managed to hum the whole song and skip from B to W. Impressive. Still cool and much, much shorter.

Your relationship with Miles and Timber has gotten complicated, especially with the latter. You seem to think it is hilarious to chase him. And while he limps from room to room, gruffing and panicking at the sheer though that you might actually TOUCH him, you follow laughing manically. I've started giving you handfuls of treats in an effort to have the dogs associate you with something positive and pleasant. Timber has discovered that if he noses his way into your fist he can pry out five or six little treats instead of just the one you dole out to him and this is the only time he will make an effort to be close to you. To actually bore himself into your skin. For the love of food. And that's good enough for me.

A new love of music and rhythm has brought many hours of dancing to our living room. You twirl, you jump, you dip but mostly you run in place like a maniac. Favorite tunes include songs from Arctic Monkeys, Feist, White Stripes, Black Eyed Peas, and Silversun Pickups. You've also found a new passion for tickling and every time we goof around you bring your fingers close to me and wiggle them, repeating "Tikka, tikka," and giggling foolishly. You've also become quite adept at building with big block legos and you and your babysitter build enormous towers with all the available blocks that you can dig up. You stare at it proudly all day and once, when Daddy came home and accidentally knocked one over, you forlornly exclaimed "Oh, no!" and began to cry.

Daddy and I have realized that for the next year, anything we do in front of you will be repeated. Many times. Recently, overjoyed with the result of something you exclaimed "Sweet!" That might be cute, but when the dogs bark and you scream "Shut up!" and then follow it with a sigh of consternation, I feel remarkable inept as a parent. The other day you looked up at me after I had scolded you for fussing in your highchair and said, clear as day, "Stop bitching!"

One of my favorite things this month has been your intense interest in your books. You'll sit for long periods of time in a chair in the living room, pouring over the pages filled with trucks or other beloved characters in your lap, eerily silent and entranced. You've begun to pretend to read and I'm amazed how many of your books you already know. I've begun to read longer titles to you before bed and nap and occasionally you'll punctuate the story with exclamations like "pretty!" or "Oh, no!," pointing to the on page disaster unfolding.

Recently, I had curled my hair and put on makeup in preparation for going out on my birthday. I picked you up and was helping fix you dinner and you put your hands on either side of my face and said "Pretty, mama... pretty." Sometimes it's like living with a parrot and I'm not sure exactly when somebody's home. But right at that moment, I knew you were describing something to me that you were feeling and I was grateful just to do be there to share it with you.

Letters to the O

Twenty-One Months

This is the month you discovered the toilet. It was an epiphany. After several days of expressing interest, when you finally, by sheer dumb luck, actually peed in the potty I thought I might have stumbled on parental nirvana. But you quickly restored my world to order by refusing to repeat the performance and quickly losing all fascination with that swirling, watery vortex into which all feces disappear. So last week, Mom.

The wooden block cart that was your favorite toy when you were learning to walk, that actually gave you insight into the advantages of being upright, has become something of a passion for you these last few weeks. I think because you have realized you actually control its movement and not the other way around. Giggling with maniacal glee as you run down the dogs, man handling through tight turns and even once abandoning in the far reaches of the bathroom when you somehow managed to wedge it between the wall and the toilet.

For awhile now we've been granted a reprieve because, while you would repeat everything, it sounded as if you were speaking Chinese and talking under water to everyone but me. But now. Perfectly distinguishable. Your father and I burst into laughter the other night when you were tugging your pirate ship around the living room and trying to hoist it onto the table. "Sheeeeeet," you exclaimed in frustration as if you were a bong wielding illegal just caught sneaking over the border. There are, however, other advantages to getting you to repeat words. Words like "Bok Choy," which you say as ferociously as if you were delivering a karate chop right to someone's Adam apple.

The other day when we were taking a walk you looked up at the rippled sky and, pointing to the graying clouds, exclaimed..."Ooooo... pretty!" I was gratified that you had such a love of nature until later on, when you said the same thing over your bowl of cheerios. Or the grimy, remote control Jeep gathering cobwebs in the garage. I guess this just means that you're a boy and that the beautiful things in life have everything to do with engine grease and donuts.

A perfect example of this was on another one of our walks, when you spied a banana yellow Corvette Sting Ray parked on the street about three blocks away. Anyone would have thought you had just seen Elvis. You practically stood up in your stroller, every cell of your body screaming, "Car? Car? Car?" And irrationally, I realized you wanted to hold it. This full sized automobile. Stroke it like a pet. With it's shiny wheels and lovely sloped hood. This. Entirely a male reaction. I can see a sports car and think "hey... that's sexy". Boys see the same thing and immediately... they feel the need to fondle it.

Recently we've begun to get frustrated with each other. I'm sure on your end it seems like you are saying, "Mom, let's get up and have breakfast." A very reasonable request. To me it sounds like, "Wonk, wonk wonk." NO SENSE at all. What we have here is a failure to communicate. So you've resorted to simply taking me by the hand and leading me about the house until you get your point across. "Here, you silly woman. See that pantry. OPEN IT. Good girl!"

You're ability to communicate has had some surprising effects, especially in public. I took you to the Treehouse Museum the other day and you were playing with some trains. This is a dangerous thing to do because there are only two train tables, ten cars and a zillion kids who want to play choo choo. You see the problem. You were playing happily until a group of five year olds from a birthday party descended into the room. A girl approached you, asking for the train you were playing with while simultaneously trying to grab it from you. You clutched it to your chest and began shaking your head, backing away slowly. "No? No?" You repeated over and over as you tried to melt into the wall, valiantly sticking to your principles and refusing to hand over the engine.

The last few days we've been sick with a cold/ flu thing and, of course, it sucks. Your fever was pretty high and you had been cranky and difficult all evening. I had gone into the shower with you to try to let the steam and warmth work its magic. We were both moaning and feeling sorry for ourselves, letting the warm water cascade over our backs and hanging our heads. I was holding you for several minutes and suddenly, in the middle of the delirium of your fever, you turned into the crook of my neck and blew a raspberry. We both began to laugh and you did it again and again until we were nearly hysterical. And it seemed so easy, to laugh instead of feel crappy, that I wondered why I hadn't thought of it first.

Letters to the O

Twenty Months

Your obession with wheels rolls on this month. It began several months ago when you ran up to a wagon wheel perched on a sidewalk and hugged it as if it was a long lost relative. Since then you spend every waking moment clutching a matchbox car in each hand. The moment you wake up and your feet touch the ground you run into the living room to reunite with your cars. I can practically hear you cooing to yourself and stroking them- "Precious.... precious." You've also developed a fascination with airplanes. Since we live on the edge of the air force base, the sky is full of them in the afternoons and you pause in your play to throw your arms up in delight and shout..."Plane."

This astounding thing has happened this month- you've learned to hang out in your crib and play until I come in to get you. I stumbled on this by accident one day when you woke up early from your nap and I still had several more calls to make. You fussed for a minute and then fell silent so I assumed you had fallen asleep again. More than twenty minutes later I came into the room to find you grinning, constructing tents from your blankets and talking to yourself. Unfortuantely you haven't caught onto the fact that this would be an excellent thing to do in the MORNING.

Amazingly you are still cutting teeth and they made quite a dent in your sleeping schedule. And just last week you got another cold, a minor case of the sniffles that has lingered, making you cranky. I took you to the playground just today and was reminded exactly whose child you are. You ran from slide to swing to stairs, chattering constantly and every line of your body communicating delighted animation. The longer we stayed, the more exuberiant you became, like a spinning top incapable of slowing down. When we visited your grandparents and we all took you across the street to the park, my Mom commented that she thought all the activity would calm you. She was surprised to find there was no end to your energy or your good humor and suggested you might be a bit hyper. Like someone else she knew as a child. Hyper? Never!

You've become quite the performer and show a good degree of talent at working the room. Making eye contact with the ladies, throwing them your best dimpled smile. You also have started to do something we affectionately call "The Daddy Dance." It started one day when you were very excited to see Daddy come home and you started turning in circles, stomping your feet and singing "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" George was delighted with this and since then, you do the "Daddy Dance" on cue. It's funny to see you wait until you have the full attention of the room, act embarassed or shy to build the suspense and then start the "Daddy Dance," becoming more animated as the audience claps and approves. I can see the future now... we're going to have some trouble with this one!

Letters to the O

Nineteen Months

It has surprised me that this month you suddenly seem to have come into a full understanding of the world. You're like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. When you stuck your father's hat into the dog's bowl while I was making dinner a few weeks ago, you looked up at me petulant and afraid. "Are you very, VERY mad?" the look you gave me said and you waited, shifting guiltily on your feet. I have sinned, mama. Hurry up and forgive me so I can go find something else to cause trouble with.

Not only have you come into the knowledge of good and evil, you've also managed to perfect the tone of my voice. This is not as cool as it sounds because your father and I have yet to edit our expletives around you. I have a suspicion that even if no one else in public can understand the gibberish you speak, they'll certainly know by the tone of your voice that you're swearing. Seriously, what ELSE could you be saying with such conviction? It is, however, also enormously cute when you do something catastrophic, like dump an entire box of cheerios on the kitchen floor. Then you give a gasp, put your hands on your hips and stare down at the mess, shaking your head. "Oh, OMEN!" You say, in a tone of immense disappointment.

You have also begun to do this other really cool thing... FOLLOW DIRECTIONS. It's unbelievable, like having a little robot in the house. I can say "Go to the kitchen and give this to your father," or even "please go put this away in your bedroom." And you toddle away and perform the request like a dog jumping through hoops. You seem immensely satisfied that you can follow these directions and I wonder how long it will be before you catch onto the fact that this is not a REQUIREMENT for life. The ability to follow directions. Your father and I have been getting along quite nicely without it for years.

I have been surprised that despite our overuse of the word "no," you haven't caught onto the fact that you can say it back. Neither, however, have you been able to figure out how to use "yes." When I ask you if you want something, like another drink or a red corvette, you pause and then say "All right" as if I had just suggested you give up your favorite toy and you're agreeing just to humor me. And while you say thank you to EVERYONE, you have yet to use "You're welcome" correctly. You seem to understand it comes after thank you, but you're quite sure you're responsible for saying both.

You have decided that Daddy is so cool that everyone's name should rhyme with Daddy and so you call me "Maudy." And normally that would make me pissy. Because you see I carried you around along with an extra forty pounds for nine months and then spent three hours pushing you out of me. Then I breastfed you for a year. You can at least get my name right. But you say it with such affection, when you throw your arms around my neck and press your check into mine. "Oh, maudy, maudy, maudy..." You repeat, cooing and murmuring your contentment. Okay, kid. Call me anything you want.

Letters to the O

Eighteen Months

This past month you have grown in a terrifying, destructive machine- able to create a whirlwind of chaos in sixty seconds. Since I began typing this just a short sentence ago, you went from goofing around in bed with Dad, to attempting to pull the blinds down in the living room. Now you are scavenging around in the pantry, pulling out the bagful of raisins as you toddle over to me. "Raisins... raisins???" When I tell you to put them back, you walk back over and in your attempt to shove them back into the pantry, you dislodge a vinyl lunchbox that promptly clubs you on the head. A torrent of shocked tears follows, and now you are back in the pantry, fussing to get some grahams or cheerios from the top shelf. This is the way it goes, a constant battle between independence and need. Two steps forward, one step back.

The advantage to this is that you are a hell of a lot of fun. It seems as though we can literally see you evolving mentally a minute at a time. You build block towers and laugh outrageously when they fall. You stand up on the changing table with your diaper off and give yourself kisses in the mirror. When you're ready for breakfast you slip down from the side of the bed, walk over to the door and begin banging on it until someone opens it. The you toddle into the living room, pick out cereal from the pantry and climb into your own highchair, attempting to strap yourself in.

I don't mind encouraging all this independence except that it seems to lend itself to a certain amount of stubbornness as well. But you are excellent at asking for assistance "Elp, peese?" and excruciatingly polite. Every dish you hand me from the dishwasher to put away is accompanied by a "Dank you!" When you melt into tears and petulant, frustrated cries I merely remind you, "What do you need to say?" And you wreathe yourself in smiles and request what you want easily, as if you have forgotten the wonderful power of speech and it's ability to get you things.

My favorite moment this month was when I came home from my meetings and you and Dad were taking a nap together in our bed. I crawled between the covers and you rolled over and nuzzled into me, as if I had always been there. And when you finally woke up you lay on me for a long time, quietly saying "hmmmmm...." and smiling. And then you lifted your head up and called me "Daddy." Thanks, kid. I love you, too.

Letters to the O

Seventeen Months

This month your father and I suddenly came to the realization that you are practically human! You walk without stumbling, your words are nearly distinguishable and you are able to hoist yourself in and out of chairs and off the bed as if you weighed three hundred pounds rather than 20.

The past few weeks you have become rather opinionated. In fact, you have a firm idea of how everything should be done and if even the slightest detail is left to chance, the chaos of it reduces you to petulant tears. If your new found words are not getting the point across, you'll simply tug on my clothing like a bulldog who has latched his teeth into my leg until I come and see what it is that you need. You frequently haul me to the cupboard and insist that graham crackers can be a diet staple or direct me to the shower so you can wander around the slick, wet interior in constant danger of cracking your head open. And now we have reached that charming toddler stage where everything you want is a desperate NEED and my refusal to see that reality has you convinced you are the most ill treated toddler on the planet. "But I NEED to carry around that tube of toothpaste in my chubby fist. I NEED it like I need to breathe air. That tube of toothpaste is a part of my very BEING."

It is hard to imagine a being more stubborn and impatient than myself and your father, but I think we should have guessed it would be you. It's hard to tell how much of this is those mean looking molars breaking through your back gums like a jackhammer or the twin ear infections that magically re appeared in conjunction with your third cold in less than two months. Certainly, life is no bed of roses for you these days. But it is still remarkably easy to make you laugh and there are times when you spend an entire afternoon with your finger in your belly button, smiling as if you know a secret I don't. Which, of course, I'm sure you do...

Letters to the O

Sixteen Months

The past month has been a whirlwind of transition and travel, of long nights and even longer days. Your brush with sickness last month developed into a full blown encounter with RSV and while we escaped hospitalization, it was by the slimmest of margins. While it seemed your health was on solid footing by the time we flew to Portland for a visit, we were there barely 24 hours before you developed a nasty cold. Feverish and nightmarishly congested, you struggled through. Away from the comforts of home and your miraculous snot sucker, we kept you comfortable on the highs of cold medicine and Ibuprofen. More than a week later, this cold lingers on, inducing sleepless nights filled with a hacking cough and afternoons when your nose is a river of yellow mucus that seems to know no end.

I have been working more than a month now and it was been enormously difficult because I resent every moment I’ve had to spend out of the circle of your smile. Despite your health struggles, you remain eager to laugh and ready to entertain. The extremes you will go to in order to earn enthusiastic praise and applause is quite endearing. I try to take advantage of these moments because I know it won’t be long until you refuse to go get me a cold beer no matter how energetically I clap my approval.

The most dramatic developments that have occurred this month have everything to do with your vocabulary. You will not shut the fuck up. When we were in Portland you discovered the amazing game of hide and seek and will seemingly spend an eternity exploring how often you can hide your face behind a napkin and ask “Where is he?”. Most charmingly, you answer yourself by flinging the object you are hiding behind aside and shouting “There he is!” This tendency to speak of yourself in the third person- I am sure you get this from me. And I am quite proud of it.

The unfortunate side effect of all this adorable chatter is that you repeat ABSOLUTELY everything that is said in your presence. And your father and I- total potty mouths. We can’t help ourselves. So when a few weeks ago you began to shout “Fluff,” and it sounded so cute, we completely encouraged you to repeat it. Over and over. We would take you to places- the store, a friend’s house- and direct you to say “Fluff,” to excessive, fond approval. We were all in the car just last night, running errands and your father swore as he was navigating through traffic. “Fuck!” From the back seat we heard you shout “Fluff.” And it was then that we realized we were completely doomed.

Letters to the O

Fifteen Months

This past month has been a whirlwind, not only because of the dramatic changes we have perhaps foolishly introduced into our lives, but also because you have suddenly turned into a little boy. In the past few weeks you have begun to talk like a real bona fide person. Your favorite phrase is "What's that?," repeated endlessly, accompanied by the pointing of a straight little finger and an insatiable curiosity. Your exploding vocabulary includes words like car, cheerios, hat, "up, up," and "night, night." My favorite has to be your new found passion for hide and seek and the resulting exclamation of "there he is!" when you've been found.

Deciding to place you into someone else's care was a difficult situation and I was surprised to realize that in the end, you made the choice. We went to lots of places, some dirty and horrible, some bare and noisy, and you clung to the close vicinity of my kneecaps and would venture no farther, silent and withdrawn. When we finally found a comfortable home with nice people and agreeable children, you wandered away from my lap within the first several minutes, smiling and babbling. You were even, in fact, reluctant to leave. The first day when I picked you up to go home you wouldn't look at me for the first several minutes, as if you were uncertain it was acceptable to forgive me for my gross negligence in leaving you in someone else's home, no matter how wonderful, the ENTIRE day. But then you approached me with your shoe, placed it in my lap, leaned over so you could peer into my face as I sat cross legged on the floor, and smiled broadly. "Hi!" you said and squirmed into the scoop of my lap as if you had never left.

We also took you camping for the first time this month. You were a much better traveler when you were a baby, quiet and easily preoccupied. Now you fuss and long for the space to stretch and can not be distracted from your discomfort by the familiarity of toys. When we finally reached the campsite and deposited you in the red dust, you seemed unable to believe your good fortune. An entire evening to walk around gathering as much dirt as possible into the crevices of your pants and chin folds? Bitchin. But by the end of the weekend you were wandering around the site as if it were a wasteland, cold, dirty and missing the freedom of a house full of toys tailored exclusively to your gooeyness.

I think I will always remember this month though as the time when you were monumentally sick. Battling double ear infections, a croupy cough, and fluid in your lungs, your fever raged on and on. Your father and I did a juggling act to stay home with you, struggling to help you recuperate. After several days we ended up in the ER one night, frightened by your shallow breathing and continued fever. Through it all, while you may have fussed and endured resentfully, we could always manage to glean a smile or a giggle. In the waiting room at 10:30 pm after they stuck you with a steroid shot, you and your father had a fabulous belly laugh repeating the word "Fluff" over and over (your version sounds more like "fvuff"). And just today, worried about your continued fever and congestion, I took you to bed with me and we vegetated, watching TV for nearly two hours. I attempted to sit you up to allow you to play with some toys from under the covers but you protested until I laid you back down against my chest, where you fell asleep, snoring through the snot, your forehead warm and cheeks flushed. I felt so amazingly grateful that out of all the people in the world, I was the one that had the power to comfort you, even if it meant that I had to be a human tissue. As we're quickly learning, parenting is all about trade-offs. This is one I was happy to make.

Letters to the O

Fourteen Months

After last month, I began to seriously consider giving you to someone else for a little while- at least until you were capable of rational conversation. I started to think that I had jinxed us by speculating that the happiest baby in the world could only become the most difficult toddler ever. But then your cold cleared up, your teeth came in and you returned to your delightful little self, full of laughter and clownish antics.

It's hard to condense the million and one little things you have begun to do that are endlessly endearing. Like when I started bringing you downstairs with me to do yoga and you began to do it with me, giggling through your "downward dog" poses at a world upside down and reaching for the sky. You've finally gotten the hang of "peekaboo" and frequently hide yourself in your playhut tunnel, peeking around the sides to see if we're enjoying the game as much as you are. But my favorite has to be the way you've learned to dance, rotating your wrists and waving your hands as you walk in circles. The music is inconsequential. You'll dance to death metal, country and even just a drumbeat as long as there's an audience to cheer you on.

Your language is growing rapidly this month and you've added "Night-Night," "Bye-bye," "What's That?" and funniest of all "Raisins" with an extra syllable so it sounds like "raisinins". You're fascinated with your books and often, when you've grown very quiet, I'll find you in your room, paging through them and staring at the illustrations. You love to do as much for yourself as possible, including turning on and off the light switches, putting your bath toys away, and reaching your hands into cereal and raisin boxes to get your own helpings. We also took you to the playground recently and guided you down the slide and let you swing, although you were much more interested in the other little people than any recreational fun the playground had to offer.

This month marked the end of your pacifier. According to plan, two weeks after you finished weaning, we began to withdraw it's soothing effects, first during the day and then at night. While you didn't throw any horrific tantrums, you were a tad bit cranky and much LOUDER than you used to be. When we were at the Baby Expo in Salt Lake City, you began fussing to get down. I let you and followed in your toddling path as you crossed the room and much to my horror, attempted to grab a bottle off of a strange baby's stroller tray. I apologized and whisked you away, trying hard not to laugh at my own naivety. And I thought you just wanted to say hello.

Your father and I have spent lots of time rolling around on the floor and being goofy with you this month. You've learned to point to different body parts when prompted, including your nose and ears. But our favorite is that you've discovered your tummy and when we say "Where's your big little belly?," you proudly pat your round tummy and smile. This delighted your father when he first saw it and subsequently, every time you heard him coming you began patting your belly just to hear him laugh his approval. Like father, like son.

Letters to the O

Thirteen Months

This month was, literally, action packed. You began with long bouts of unassisted standing and lots of toddling around the house behind the wheel of your block cart, pushing it off course into walls and tumbling over. Now, at the end of the month, you are walking across the room, struggle to balance your awkward body with every step and smiling gleefully at our encouragements. You can scramble up the stairs in the blink of an eye and often do, giggling breathlessly when you sense my imminent approach, swooping in to return you to the neutral zone where you are not in constant danger of cracking your skull open. You even accomplished the entirely predictable task of falling down the stairs, although you escaped without injury because you took the safety gate with you and rode down on top of it like it was a surfboard. Brilliant, Einstein. Absolutely brilliant. Your new thing is to lean over as if you're going to do a head stand and peer at the world upside down from between your legs. It's so damn cute I can't watch for fear I'll laugh and you'll just do it over and over until I no longer find it endearing. And that would be a shame.

Your sense of humor has really developed this month and borders on the silly, crass and ridiculous. Gee, wonder who you got THAT from? You'll join in with anyone who's laughing. Understanding the joke, it seems, is not necessary. It is also, in your opinion, quite funny to fart in the bath. Glad you're catching onto that one. You love to dance to the tune of a counting song on your learning house, which mostly involves buckling your knees over and over again and holding onto the roof of the house for support. Dad has also taught you one of the most important life skills you will ever learn- how to drum. Previously you were of the opinion that drumsticks made great teething material or fantastic projectiles.

And finally, you NEVER shut the hell up. NEVER. When you are not fawning over your pacifiers and taste testing each one, you are babbling endlessly. Your vocabulary has grown to four or five words already, including your favorite command- "Quiet, dog!" Not sure where you heard that one, but whoever taught it to you must be really serious about it because you lean over and spit out the phrase like you are hurling the words at their canine heads. When we were on a walk earlier this month, you saw a dog far off in someone else's driveway and leaned out of your stroller, pointed and shrieked "Dog!" As if to say, "I know what that four footed furry thing is. We have some of those. They're stupid dogs!" I was nearly as excited as you were.

I've finally given in and allowed you to feed yourself things that have the potential to become liquid and volatile. I supply you with utensils, secure your suction cup bowl, and simply close my eyes and hope for the best. Most of the pictures your father and I have of you this month you are plastered in food. You look like you are attempting to cover yourself in every color of the rainbow at least once. My favorite was when you rubbed yogurt into your eyes. Smart one, kid. Your Daddy also took it upon himself to give you your first haircut this month. Make no mistake about it, you were starting to look like a girl.

Just a few days ago you came down with your first cold. You were a constant river of snot, as if you were piping it in from somewhere else on the cheap. I never knew I could spend so many hours sleeping in a recliner, trying to keep you upright so you could breathe and I could doze fitfully. Every once in awhile you would reach up to stroke the side of my face, reassuring yourself that I was still there. As if I had anywhere better to be at 4 am than with you, listening to the crackle of your snores. Honestly.

Letters to the O

One Year

It feels like just yesterday that I was laboring to bring you into this world, not able to imagine yet your laugh or that little mole on the inside of your right thigh. And then suddenly here we are, with an entire year of babyhood behind you and years of joyful, tempestuous toddlerhood ahead. Happy Birthday, baby!

This past month, to my mingled disappointment and relief, you did not learn to walk. But you managed to make such an extraordinary nuisance of yourself that I'm not sure it matters. Your mornings and afternoons are spent speed crawling form room to room, avidly attempting to ingest dogfood and marbles while you pry open the outlet covers and throw them into the air. You've taught yourself how to scramble up the stairs without assistance and how to stand, poised, for more than five seconds before your knees buckle and you crumble like a demolition tower. You've also derived great satisfaction from drinking gallons of bathwater and sticking peanut butter up your nostrils at lunch. These are the times when I throw my head back and laugh with you like a psycho ward beauty queen because hey... we were already on the razor's edge of sanity anyway. Why not just paint with our own feces? I mean really, who are we trying to impress.

Your relationship with the dogs has evolved quite a bit this month. Previously you were a loud, messy substance which seemed vaguely appealing but whose antics seemed too boisterous to allow for closer inspection. Now that you have traded in your puree mashed dinners for something with substance, Miles and Timber kneel and worship at the throne of your highchair every mealtime, eagerly waiting for manna to fall from heaven. Your favorite thing to do with food is moisten it with salivia and then push it out onto your lap like a pez dispenser. The dogs think this is an impressive trick and are eager to play groupie. I lower you chair to dog height, remove the tray and stand back as they tongue bath you from head to toe and you giggle and grunt. Hey, it sure beats trying to scrub that crap off you with a papertowel. Don't judge me.

I've begun to worry that perhaps you are under the mistaken impression that you actually ARE a dog. You roll around the floor and growl or chase Timber around the table while he panics at the mere sight of your flailing approach- "atrocious baby.... must get help...." And when I see you standing next to Miles at the window, both of your peering out at the great, big world, eager for evidence that warrants announcement, I can't help but feel proud. These are your siblings and they have taught you that the world is yours to pee on. Is there a more valuable lesson than that?

There are a few things that your father and I have endeavored to teach you this month and in the process we have learned that there is nothing you will not do for applause. We discovered this quite by accident at Christmas, when your Grandmother and Aunt shamelessly broke out the adoration over every motion of your little pinkie finger. Later when we were in church and the crowd clapped, you beamed and practically bowed to your public. Just this week you mastered the art of clapping yourself, both hands meeting softly and nearly soundlessly as you smiled and looked from your father's face to mine to judge our reaction. "Coolest thing ever, right?" Yes! Except just a few days later when I taught you to put your blocks away by clapping tirelessly. That was way cooler because it meant less clutter. And clutter, in my house, is so uncool. You will learn, my son.

You've also begun, finally, to call me "mama" without pointing at the dog or looking at a graham cracker. You call me from your crib when you wake up in the dark, pitiful little wailing sounds "maaaaa-maaaaa" or it's more insistent tones when you are eager for a hug "MA MA MA MA MA." And just last night, when your father and I were having a late supper downstairs in front of the TV and you were contentedly enthroned in your couch pillow, you did the most wonderous thing either of us had ever seen. Dad said "Hi," to you and you looked at him, smiled and gave a perfect little wave of you hand like a baby beauty pageant queen and replied- "Hi!" Your father and I looked at each other speechless, and then, in hushed tones as if we were afraid the moment would shatter like glass,

"Yeah!!!!" And we clapped furiously, shamelessly while you looked from each of us, delighted that you had managed to steal the show.

Letters to the O

Eleven Months

I feel like a sailor preparing for a storm on the high seas every time I set you on the floor- "Batten down the hatches!" Over Thanksgiving weekend it seems your mobility exploded and you began not only to stand and pull up on everything, but to cruise from object to object around the house. Your coordination has also developed nicely and you have become a professional crawler. This means that when I leave you playing in one room and sneak away to do some mundane household chore, you've decided it's easiest to simply follow me. I can trace the path of your travels through the house by the trail of destruction you leave behind. Scattered toys, odd socks, wooden bowls, tennis balls strewn across the living room and hallway in your wake.

You have recently decided that "No," must mean,"Can you do that again? I didn't see it the first time." The dog's bowls, and more recently the pantry, hold infinite wonder for you and you've spent hours trying to figure out how to circumnavigate my watchful gaze and get yourself a handful of kibble or cheerios before I swoop in and relocate you to the other end of the house. You also think standing in the bath is a way cool idea, despite the fact that cracking your head open is a likely outcome, and I spend entire bath times plopping you back down on your bottom while you giggle breathlessly.

Those two large, gleaming white teeth in your upper gum that have been causing us so much anguish at night have dropped down and started to make themselves useful. I began to give you finger foods at the beginning of December and you've discovered what all children have known since the dawn of time. Cheerios are their own food group for a very good reason. And since then, you don't want to ingest anything that isn't shaped like a cheerio. This is going to turn out to be something of a problem unless you'd like to be cop. You've also realized that if you don't like something that I deposit in your mouth, you can simply spit it out. I wish it had taken you a little longer to catch onto that one. I have learned, however, that you really like fish. Seriously. Fish. Pan fried with a little Old Bay and olive oil. What kind of kid are you?

You would think all this movement would be exhausting, but I'm afraid I may be the only one who feels that way. You've begun to indicate that your morning nap may no longer be necessary and occasionally pass entire nap times standing in your crib, holding onto the rails and surveying your room. Your nighttime wakings became a little less frequent right up until the last two weeks, when you began to cut two or three more of those little pearly whites. Now we're back to fussing and restless tossing every hour or two. When I look old and haggard by 35, I'll know exactly who to blame.

Just last week the entire household came down with a disastrously disabling flu. You awoke at 5 am and threw up your morning feeding all over the crib. You continued to vomit and dry heave off and on for the next six to eight hours, but you never cried once. Just clung to me, your feverish head burrowing into my chest, for hours and hours. It was nearly a week before you seemed back to your old self, mischievously disassembling the humidifier while I showered or attempting to crawl off your changing table to reach a discarded tube of toothpaste. And as hellish as a puking, pooping, sick baby can be, I had a few seconds where I missed those few days. When the laundry and the dishes and the errands could wait and the only thing that was important was to hold you.

Letters to the O

Ten Months

This past month you decided that sleep was an unnecessary addiction and so you went cold turkey and gave it up. While I'm impressed with your willpower, I have to say I'm on the verge of punching the next old lady who smiles at you and says what a wonderful baby you are in the mouth. Think he's wonderful- then you stay up with him tonight Grandma! Previously, your sleeping issues were confined to daytime hours, which was bothersome but not life threatening. Now you toss and turn fitfully, mewing in your sleep and crying every hour or two. Initially I had hoped this was a result of your new found talent for crawling but as the weeks stretched into a month or more, I began to despair. I would never sleep again- I was doomed to be ugly and angry and completely frumpy for the rest of my days because insomnia runs in your veins like water. And then two little white bumps appeared on the ridges of your upper gums three days ago. You've slept the last two nights straight through until the early morning without a peep. You'll never know how close you came to being adopted by circus elephants.

There has been only one volume level to your voice for a couple of weeks now. Decibel shattering. It was if you suddenly discovered you could make glass shatter and kittens cower with the sheer power of your falsetto. I suppose it didn't help that your father and I used to think your baby grunts and silly screams were funny. When you open your mouth now, especially in public, your dad and I scowl and rush to fill it with something before that horrible sound gets us thrown out of Target for disturbing the peace again. I am also increasingly alarmed and more than a shade guilty about the fact that you are now mimicking not my words, but my tone. When I yell at the dogs to stop barking, you chime in with a slew of slurred baby outrage directed at their innocent canine heads. The time has come when I can no longer make fun of your father behind his back and expect you to be too stupid to repeat it. Ahhh... how I hoped that day would never come to pass.

Your ears have become your most prized possession and bear the marks of many scratches in your attempts to love every curved and hollowed ridge of them. You pull on them while drifting off to sleep, stick scraps of food from lunch in there to tide you over until dinner, and hold their soft lobes between your fingers when I change you. The only thing you adore more than your baby ears is anything else I happen to be holding in my hands besides you. While I could put the most fascinating new toy in front of you and you would throw it fifty yards just to watch it bounce, you'll sit enthralled with the blue plastic case for my birth control pills and mouth them for hours.

We bought you a wooden block cart at Costco a couple of months ago and you've played with it for a bit, enjoying the doors that open and shut and the bead and wire maze on the handles. Now, though, you've discovered it's true use as a standing stool and spend all your playtime attempting to edge your way into an upright position unassisted. When I wheel it into the room, you clap your hands with delight and suck your breath in in anticipation. And while you have injured yourself countless times on the contraption, you keep coming back for more.

When the doctor informed us that you were 20 plus pounds at your last visit, we finally gave in and traded in your infant seat for a forward facing toddler seat. This arrangement, you think, is a vast improvement. Not only is the seat much more comfortable but you get to see where we are going and give Daddy directions when he gets lost. You can also throw your toys at full velocity from the back seat and watch them strike and injure people you love. And what could be better than that? In addition to the scenery, you are obsessed with watching traffic. I could sit out on the front stairs all afternoon and give you a front seat view of every truck and sedan that rumbles by and you would be ecstatic. And I would too if it wasn't so damn ghetto.

Our days have fallen into a predictable routine, a cadence of activities that you seem to derive great comfort in. Everyday after Miles takes us for our morning walk, I lift you bundled like a great big ball of baby out of your stroller. After I carry you up the stairs and relieve you of the burdens of coat, hat and mittens, you always burrow your face into mine and nuzzle me, cheek to cheek. Then you put your hand up to my face, hold my head in place and gnaw on my cheekbone with little "naw, naw naw" sounds. And I realize that these are kisses to you, signals we have taught you mean deep and joyful affection. You have learned that pretending to eat someone else's face is the sweetest way to say "I love you." We are the coolest parents you will ever know.

Letters to the O

Nine Months

I've considered calling David Copperfield recently and offering you up as his apprentice. You have mastered the act of transporting yourself. I can turn my back for two seconds to grab a kitchen towel to wipe up your spit up and you've crossed the floor, scaled the refridgerator, and begun to take swigs from the Knob Creek bottle. This month you began to crawl, and also, consequently, to fall. Off everything. You are constantly finding something new and entertaining to bash your head on and now that you have begun to pull yourself to a standing position, I know it will only be a matter of time before you find the car keys and decide to take yourself for a joy ride. Just remember- red is not only a cool color...it also means STOP.

You have developed a stubborn hatred for your car seat and even, recently, your highchair. When you see those dreadful appendages of torture approaching your delicate body, you arch your back, lock your knees and squeeze your eyes shut tight. Every fiber of your baby body pitched against me and the inhumanity of being buckled and restained. This infant obstinancy creeps up in all sorts of places- in the stroller when the sunshade suddenly obstructs your god given view of the neighborhood, when I actually dare to put you down so I can put a few mouthfuls of dinner into my mouth. Your protests always begin with flailing arms, saucer eyes and a hee hawing sound that mimics hyperventilating. This is my warning. If I was smart I would turn back, give you lots of money and chocolate ice cream and gnaw on your double chin until you got the hiccups. But, as the record shows, I am a glutton for punishment. And so begins the enraged screaming. You even screamed yourself hoarse a few weeks ago, much to my amusement. Everytime you tried to express complaint after that it came out as a weak, crackling sigh. Your Dad and I managed to capture footage of you in your "Jekyll and Hyde" act- one second laughing, the next on the verge of hysterical crying. It was enormously adorable.

You've begun to recognize language and music. When the Disney intro to the baby einstein video begins, a wide smile breaks out across your face in anticipation. I've been able to make you giggle just by reciting lines from your favorite books- although when I murmur "Mr. Brown can Moo- can you?," in line at Bajio, I'm never sure if the weird look the hispanic dude behind the counter gives me is because he doesn't speak a word of english or he thinks I'm retarded.

I think my favorite advancement this month was when you learned to open and shut things. The lids on your block cart, the tops of your shape sorters. You open them slowly, peek with fascination at the contents inside and them slam them shut delightedly. This attraction to the dark contents behind doors applies also to mouths. You take any opportunity when I open my mouth to thrust your hand inside and dig around like you're exploring for buried treasure. You've also begun to try to insert everything into other people's mouths instead of your own. Miles, Timber, Daddy... all of us have been forcefed blocks on occasion in the past weeks. Since your coordination leaves much to be desired, this process is less than gentle.

I recently taught you to wave, but thus far you wave mostly at yourself. Inspecting the open and shutting reflex of your hand as if it is a strange alien object. You do it mostly in your highchair for some reason, probably from the sheer boredom of the druggery of eating pureed chicken and unflavored yogurt.

The chill of fall has descend rapidly this year and evening often finds you and I snuggled under a quilt in your recliner. When I read you your books before bedtime, you sometimes reach up to touch my face and smile at me as if to say,

"You're my mommy."

And I remind myself to enjoy these moments because you won't always be this infatuated with me.

Letters to the O

Eight Months

I hope you won't feel insulted when I tell you that you've become a real pain in the ass this month. It began when you learned how to take your diaper off. I'm not sure if you think you are being considerate by helping me, but I sure wish you'd cut it the fuck out. Everytime I deposit you on the changing table, you give a chorus of protests as if I've just suggested giving away your allowance to a third world country.

While you remain the most cheerful baby we know, you have certainly become increasingly DEMANDING. Everytime you are removed from something you enjoy- a toy, outside, mommy- you throw your head back and give grunting little cries accompanied by flailing hands and butt scooting resistance. It would be comical if it wasn't so damn annoying. The outside world is a subject of constant enthrallment for you and there is never any satisfactory excuse, in your opinion, for going inside. You watch the shapes of the trees against the sky and giggle and wave your hands at their rustling leaves. Recently, we had quite a bout of storms here with severe downpours, hail and thunder. The wind blew gusts up your nose, the hail pelted the deck roof in a cacophony of fury and you rocked back and forth and squealed with delight. When a clap of thuner was so close and loud that it made me jump, you laughed as if someone had sat on a whoopie cushion.

This month I began encouraging you to drink out of a cup, which looks more like an alternative torturing technique. Just as soon as you were done spluttering and choking, you'd lifted the cup back to your lips for more voluntary waterboarding. I was puzzled when I began to feed you fruits this month like banana and peaches and you acted as if I was suddenly trying to poison you. Then I remembered you're the same freak that likes asparagus and peas.

Our trip to Colorado a few weeks ago was an exercise in sleep deprevation for you. We just wanted to see if we could take away all your daytime naps, keep you up until ten and still get you to giggle at fish face. The answer: Yes. Considering you were surrounded by strangers, sleeping in a strange bed, and eating food from a jar, you did remarkably well. The only drawback was that you were so clingy it was like I had a human growth attached to my hip.

There's a handful of new things that you've found humorous this month. You love when you're talking and Daddy vibrates your chest and makes your voice sound like a funhouse giggle. In fact, when anyone laughs these days, you join in, besides yourself with sympathy. My favorite though has to be the enormous smile that creeps over your face when I am forced to bring you into the bathroom with me and you hear me pee. I wish you could be polite like the rest of the world and just pretend you're not listening.

The most exciting development by far has been your increasing mobility. You do a version of crawling I like to call "The headplow." You've got the leg action right and can get up onto your knees easily, but you haven't quite caught on to lifting your chest and getting on your hands, so you just plow your big old noggin' along, dusting the floors with the top of your head. When I leave you for a few minutes on the floor to go get the laundry or to take a 2 minute Mexican shower, I come back to find you halfway across the room, having a conversation with the closet door that looks somewhat painful. I know it won't be long before you'll be into the cabinets and cupboards and trying to crack your head open by doing a swan dive down the stairs and so I take advantage of the fact that you are still retardedly slow. It would take you three years just to make it to the front door at this pace.

You haven't been very fond of playing on your own lately, probably because you spend all your time listening to figure out where I am. I can literally hear you from the other room in your Exersaucer, ears honed like sonar for the slightest indication that someone might actually come pick you up. Frankly, it's rather creepy and I feel foolish sneaking around my own house just to avoid the guilt of pathetic cries.

And finally this month, you've begun to do something that I feel as if I've waited a lifetime for. It's the simplest thing in the world, but it's significance feels enormous. When you are tired, or playing shy, or even just in need of a cuddle, you lower your small baby head onto my shoulder and snuggle into the crook of my neck. And as quick as a reflex, I drop my head and lay it on top of yours and we share the smallest of moments alone in the middle of a crowd.

Letters to the O

Seven Months

Much to my dismay, your sixth month birthday found us both weathering through a summer cold. You maintained your congenial good temper throughout and really only seemed bothered for a day or two during the whole episode. Right about the same time, you seem to have discovered coughing and thought it was a hilarious sound that you since duplicate for strangers, who, to your delight, show such concern over your hyperbole.

In fact, this month your father and I have realized that somehow, despite the fact that we both would love nothing better than to hole up in a log cabin in the woods for the rest of our days, you feed like a bloodsucking leech on human adoration and interaction. You live to smile. You can be counted upon, no matter what the situation, to be angelically pleasant in public and your charm has resulted in hundreds of compliments form strangers. "What a happy baby!" or "Look at that smile!" You are, of course, particularily fond of women and reward them with your full body squirm and a delighted giggle, in addition to your wide, open smile.

Heaven forbid they try to hold you, however. This is a right awarded only to Mom and you are quick to sound a pealing shriek of alarm and quickly scan the room for the face you know so well. You've begun to say "mama," althought it doesn't seem as if you've realized this word relates directly to that woman with the milk. And when "mama" leaves the room, the temper tantrums that result are glorious crescendos of fevered tears and thrashing legs. You have become fascinated with every detail of "mama," clutching at my necklaces and hair and holding them in your ferocious grip. You have also, unfortunately, realized that those lovely milk orbs are underneath my shirt and frequently pull the front of my shirt out to peer down as if to say- "Hullo down there! How are you?"

Your journey of discovery hasn't ended there. You started the month sitting for long counts of a hundred or more. You can now be trusted to sit independently for fifteen minutes to half an hour without falling over into a little heap of baby. This has opened a whole new world of play for you and you've spent many hours sitting under your play gym or in your playpen, engrossed in toys. You've discovered how to put things inside each other, bang them, and how to press buttons to illict sounds from your magical toys. Our walks have become much more interesting to you now that you can sit up and actively scan your world, your garbbled calls a constant accompaniment to our steps through the neighborhood. Just last week your reached beyond your stroller to touch Miles's panting, black head bobbing next to you as we walked. He licked your hand in appreciation and I felt a little teary eyed despite myself.

Your appetite seems insatiable and you gobble up veggies and cereal three times daily. Most foods seem to meet with your approval except perhaps broccolli and potatoes. I was shocked when you actually enjoyed asparagus. Freak. You've even begun to try and help me feed you, guiding the spoon to your own mouth. I try to encourage this despite my horror of watching you plaster oatmeal inside your nostrils. Just in the past two weeks, two tiny teeth have broken ground in your lower gum, causing much crankiness and sleeplessness for us both. I'm terrified for the day when the matching ones appear in your upper mouth because I'm certain my nipples are in imminent danger.

Bathtime is your new favorite thing to do in the evenings and you've begun to splash and attempt in earnest to drink the bathwater. In fact, you delight in being naked, mostly because you've discovered your penis. You reach down every time I change you just to give it a few tugs. "Okay, still there. Good."

While you've been standing and even taking steps for several months with assistance, I can see real progress in your balance. This month, I can stand you on a flat surface and actually let go for a few seconds before you crumble like a demolition tower. Your father and I have been trying to encourage you to crawl first however, by placing the love of your life (the TV remote) inches from your grasp and watching your kick and squirm on your tummy until your fingers can close around it.

Earlier this month on a Sunday morning, I left you on our bed with your Dad while I went to the bathroom. When I came back out, you were sitting in the curve of his body, running your baby palms over the tattoe on his arm and furrowing your brow. It was so tender and adorable that I waited across the room, not wanting to interrupt the moment. You, engrossed in the lines on his skin the same way you study my moles, intimate and somehow tender.

Letters to the O

Six Months

The house has been filled with your infectious, breathless giggling this month. Your Daddy and I have spent long hours enthralled with making you laugh, willing to do all manner of ridiculous and humilating things just to illicit that uncontrollable spasm of giggling and shrieking. This month you seem to prefer animal sounds- the sillier the better. Favorites include anything ending in oo- "moo," Whoo-whoo," and "Cockle Doodle Doo" all get an immediate, delighted response. You've also become enormously ticklish, especially under your armpits, and even the threat of tickling fingers in your vicinty sends you off into peals of shrieking laughter.

We've begun to feed you real food- mainly just cereal so far. You are the most vocal eater, constantly making all sorts of grunts and throaty protests as you obligingly open your mouth so I can shovel more in. When I don't put enough breastmilk to sweeten up your cereal, you make faces and gag as if I am the worst sort of mother and I've just fed you your own feces. Your protesting cries, in fact, have become as loud in the house as your laughter and you are quick to sound the alarm of personal dissatisfaction everytime I dare to turn a corner beyond your line of sight. Your mommy attachment has become so severe and dehabilitating that Daddy is concerned for your future manhood. When he holds you, you reach your hands out to me and make pathetic little mewing cries that can only be quenched by immediate mommy contact or a verse of "Old McDonald had a Farm." You've even learned to hide your satisfied smirk when you've gotten your way into the shadow of my shoulder, but I've noticed and begun to deny you small things in an effort to build your patience and decrease your stubborn will. Life sucks, kid. And I can make it suck harder. Get used to it.

Perhaps your increasing demands have to do with those tiny little teeth that are painfully pushing on your tender gums. You've begun the first stages of teething and seem to edge on irrational breakdown at the drop of a hat. It's disrupted your nighttime sleep and sent me into my own fog of irritability. I've resorted to the monsterous poison of television to get through a daily shower without paniced screams. You're enthralled with Blues Clues and when I hum the "Goodbye" song you smile happily in recognition. God damn TV. It's just too easy.

While last month you could be trusted to sit up propped on a pillow for a reasonable amount of time, you can now sit independently for several minutes. We've made a game of it by sitting you in the middle of the bed and counting until you fall over. This is what we play when I'm getting dressed or folding laundry and when you fall over you squeal and rub your face into the sheets and wait fo rme to come and prop you up again. You hold onto your toes for leverage and have even begun to suck your big toe from this position, a habit which must certainly be your father's fault since he's from Kentucky.

You also amuse me with your impression of what I call "Darth Baby." You make these throaty, husky gurgles in the back of your throat while scrunching your eyebrows together. Perhaps you're trying to imitate the deeper tones of adult conversation, but I find it hilariously endearing. One of the other endearing things I've noticed about you this month is your walking stride. You always start with your left foot and bring it back to center and then take a right step, as if you were a tiny Buckingham Palace soldier and your life depended on the straight-legged percision of your baby steps.

For all the small quirks and irritabilities that have popped into being this month, you remain easy to please. In the middle of the night, when uncomfortable or frightened, I only have to scoop you up from your crib and let you nuzzle into the crook of my neck. The tears immediate cease and you sigh and snuggle your head in closer as if you've found your way home. And I stand there with you for long moments, half asleep, loving that small gesture of yours in the middle of the night.

Letters to the O

Five Months

I've begun to catch glimpses this month of the ways in which I am certain you will drive me crazy someday. The first inklings of your extraordinary stubborness and perpetual mischeviousness have trickled through. This, combined with your demanding personality and what is certain to be your early mobility has me looking toward the future with eyes squinted in apprehension. That being said, you are still the happiest, best baby I know but I am terrified this will mean you might be the worst, most difficult toddler the planet has ever seen.

The very first day after your four month mark, you rolled over on our bed independently as if you had been doing it all your life. You were completely unimpressed by this skill until I wreathed you in cheers and smiles and you realized this might be a useful manipulation tactic. Several times you rolled over in bed accidentally while sleeping and were decidedly unhappy with the results, waking in tears and with a perplexed confusion, staring at an unfamilar ceiling. Your sleeping patterns, as a matter of fact, were a source of constant confusion for the both of us this month as you continued to catnap your way through your day at twenty and fourty minute sleep bursts. Our attempts to resolve this by taking away the comfort and the annoyance of your pacifier only yielded a decidedly grouchy baby for two weeks. Your sourness wearied us into the inevitable restoration of the pacifier and you seemed immensely satsified with your victory and lapsed back into the pleasant little man we both know and love.

You've begun to use your long, terribly unattractive toes as handles this month, a fact which has delighted your father who thinks this is the cutest baby thing in the world. I am not nearly as enamored by this new development as it makes you nearly impossible to diaper when coupled with your new found squirminess on the changing table. But your fascination with your feet has extended into all areas of your development. You prop them up on anything and everything- the stroller tray when your ride, the edge of tables when you sit on my lap, the lip of the cover on your infant seat. You curl your little toes around things like a monkey and I'm certain if we had taught you to, you would have been able to grasp things with those digits long before you picked things up with your hands. You've also become very grabby lately and everything I carry in conjunction with you in my arms becomes a tug of war. You've begun to take my glass and bring it to your lips, letting the water wash down your chin in a long gurgle. We've bought you a cup of your own recently but you seem fixated on my beverages still, which makes me nervous since I'm sure one of these days you're going to down my morning gin and tonic and I'll never forgive you for it.

Speaking of downing things, everything goes in your mouth now, including any part of my body you can reach. You are especially fond of my shoulder and chin, however. I'm delighted by the way you approach things you want to mouth. It's like a soap opera scene. You get fairly close with your hands but then lose all patience and fall on the object of your desire, covering it in your drooling, eager mouth.

You've gotten a fairly full head of hair this month, coarse and dark. Strange, longer infant hairs from your early days still reside on your head though and poke out in wispy strands from all angles. And while you appearance has yet to mirror that Michelin tire baby, your face and thighs have gotten a bit chubby and that double chin grows daily.

One of the most hilarious things I discovered about you this month is that lowering you into warm water makes you poop immediately. Nearly everytime I gave you a bath this month, you released your bowels with a smiling sigh and giggled with relief. In addition, you seem to be under the impression that the best time to pee is when your diaper has been removed, which is decidedly unconvenient for me.

My favorite moments this month were when you grasped my thumbs in your tiny fists, shored up your wobbly baby legs, and took off through the grass or down the hallway. This new concept of putting one foot in front of the other delights us both. And while I would have liked you to learn to crawl first for the sake of your developmental milestones, I don't think there's a chance in hell you'll ever be interested in mobility on your hands and knees anymore. I've already begun to mentally scan the house, looking for tender and sharp objects to put out of disasters reach. I don't think it will be long before we'll all be under seige in our own home,

Some of the most endearing moments, for your Daddy and I both, have been when you've reached out to us with both hands. You love to pet our faces with your soft baby palms, as if memorizing our funny features, angles and curves. And when we bring you in close, you lay your cheek against ours and wrap your arms about us, an unmistakable gesture of intimacy and love. It's in these moments that I understand how it might be impossible to deny you anything.

Letters to the O

Four Months

This has been the month of the grandparents. We began with a visit from your Grandparents Weida and ended it with a plane trip to Vegas. In between were thousands of small milestones and while you haven't hit any big ones yet (sitting, walking, dating), you seemed a completely different baby by the time your four month birthday rolled around. Both families, however, have prononced you satisfactorily attractive and good natured, so your future Christmas bounty is well secured at this point.

I think my favorite thing this month was when you began to turn the pages in the books we read at bedtime. One day, you just reached your long, baby fingers out towards the page, grasped it, and slid it slowly to the left as if you'd been doing it your entire life. My surprised, estatic praise encouraged you so much that now you do it constantly, sometimes before I'm done reading the words. Fortunately, I have our entire small library memorized at this point. You've also come to the sudden realization that when we read or walk, I am BEHIND you. This you found enormously delightful and funny and you tilt your head back to grin at me frequently, showing me your saucer eyes and gummy smile.

You've also fallen in love with your own reflection and stare at yourself with an affectionate adoration everytime we prop you up in front of a mirror. I'm probably only being a codependent in your narcistic ways by confirming your assessment with phrases like "You're so good lookin'!" or "Don't you look handsome!" You'd think I'd gag on my own cliches at this point, but no. You just keep on smiling and I keep on complimenting. You also have begun to hold hands with yourself when no one is available and you hold them in front of you like praying, which makes me exceptionally nervous. I usually feel better after I read you some of "The Fountainhead."

We've begun to play several new games which delight you, one of which is "yum yum kisses." I lean over your baby cheeks and pretend to eat chunks out of them while repeating,"yum yum yum yum yum." You think this cannibalism is absolutely hilarious and give little belly giggles. You also respond to tickling now with squirming shrieks and grins, which makes it so much more fun than before, when you stared at me blankly like I was exhibiting some sort of strange tick. I've also been encouraging you to roll over by spending lots of time on the bed with you, propped up by pillows. You love to kick out with your feet and make yourself fall over on purpose. It's so dramatic and when your head hits the mattress you laugh like a little maniac. I act like some sort of crazed cheering section at this point, trying to get you to roll from your tummy to your back, but thus far unsuccessfully. I've seen you do it in your sleep as if it was the easiest thing in the world and wake up scared, facing the ceiling with no clue of how you ended up that way.

Your first plane trip was a perfect example of how I must have been a good person in some other life (cause I know it wasn't this one!). You rode without complaint in the Baby Bjorn, fell asleep in the terminal, nursed on the plane, and arrived fatigued but smiling into your Grandma's eager arms. While there, you entertained the entire family with your high pitched babbling conversation and managed to spit up on both grandparents and at least one sister. On the flight home, I was worried you'd be cranky but you managed to make it on board without much fuss. During takeoff I got an inkling of what we might have in store for us in the next fifteen years. While taxiing, you were enthralled with the scene outside and flapped your arms and cooed at the planes rumbling by on the runway. When our turn came, you stood in my lap like you were surfing the turbulance, arms spread, eyes wide with glee, giggling. And that's when I knew we were in trouble.

Letters to the O

Three Months

Every month when I sit down to write these vignettes, my heart aches a little over how much you've changed in just a few weeks. It seems that one day, all at once, you'll be your own little boy with a loud voice and endlessly grabbing hands and my smiley, good natured baby will suddenly be gone. Ah, how I'll miss you then. Although I hope there will be some benefits to offset the loss, like less poop for instance. That would be a good start.

It is certain that your father and I have done absolutely nothing to deserve the happy, easy going baby that you are. Yes, when we forget to feed you for days or set you on the floor and allow the dogs to tongue bathe you, you do cry but beyond that you seem unflappable. You frequently voice your happiness, as well as your displeasure, in boisterous, high pitched baby talk and often, when I come in to rouse you from an unusually long nap, I find you awake and grinning. Most eery is when I come in and find you staring and vocalizing at the green light of the monitor perched in the corner of your crib, as if you know it is this little device that serves as your portal straight beyond that bedroom door and into mommy's ear. You've begun to stare at other things too with complete recognition, specifically my breasts. As if to say..."Ah... there's those beautiful things full of milk again." Such a boy.

Your hands have reached full dexterity and you can pick up objects and grasp with ease, although you seem completely bored with this fabulous new power. I do adore the way you grasp my thumbs when you're sitting in my lap reading books, sucking away at your pacifier and seeming the most blissfully content baby ever seen. Often, after you've fallen asleep drooling on my chest, I'll go to set you down in your crib only to find that a piece of my shirt is crumpled in your tiny, closed fist and we are inextricably intertwined. You pet me now when you nurse, your arm around my back, and I'm never sure who finds this more soothing- me or you.

We get into the bath together and you adore being surrounded in bubbles, floating on the warm water's surface in the safety of my arms. You've even begun to kick your legs and do a remarkable impression of a baby trying to swim. I sometimes think if I let you go, you'd just swim away on your own power. I blow bubbles with the bubble wand and let them float in the air just above your head and you giggle and take huge gulps of air when they hit and break in your face, as if you've narrowly escaped imploding with delight.

Now that the weather is somewhat cooperative, we walk almost every day. I like to refer to you as the "Pimpster" when you are in your stroller. You sit at half recline, both arms extended, a satisfied smile as you bump down the sidewalk. Oblivious to that strange woman at your back, who pushes and puffs up the hills. You make it look so effortless to passerbys. "This is my ride, bitches."

You've grown out of all of your newborn clothes and moved, exactly on time, into your 3-6 months duds. This is mostly because of your height (although do you notice when we refer to babies, we call it their length because they're always lying down) and your boat feet. I've packed away those little sleepers and tiny socks with regretful little sighs. Soon will come the day you won't need me to wipe your butt anymore. And seriously, unbelievably, I'll be sad about it.

Daddy was holding you the other day and I walked into the room and stood by his shoulder. You turned your head the second you saw me and gazed at me and your daddy said,
"Wow... he REALLY loves you. You can tell by the way he looks at you."
And I looked down into your wide, warm eyes and open smile and saw it there. Absolute trust. I've never felt so humble.

Letters to the O

Two Months

Somewhere in the middle of sleeping schedules, colic, green poop and your eager laughter, we watched you slip from infantdom into babydom. Two months old now, you suddenly seem all baby- akward, vocal and full of gum toothed smiles. The last month has seen you learning to drink (or rather gulp wholeheartedly in your case) from a botttle, snoozing in the lonely jailhouse of your crib, and eerily leaping from utter silence into a world of baby and animal sounds that include soft coos, enthusiastic gushings, and my favorite- the high pitched shriek of delight. Still a little tyke with just a hint of a double chin, you are barely a ten pounder now but, as your father is wont to brag, "strong like bull." A few afternoons ago I had to finally admit that your father may not be wildly exagerrating when he claims that you are attempting to skip the infant crap and move right to standing on your own two feet, a streak of stubborn independence that has me utterly terrified.

It's difficult to enumerate the thousand little ways you moved into becoming your own being. You make the loudest farting noises I have ever heard when you poop. And then when the epic booms have faded, you beam incredible, ear to ear smiles out to the world as if pooping is the most fulfilling event you will ever know. You have finally begun to nurse with your eyes wide open, peering up at me from beyond the curve of my breast and practically leering. It's a little weird and very endearing at the same time. Your little cheeks and forehead are covered with patches of baby acne and your hair has faded to a lighter brown and you've begun to develop enormously adorable little cowlicks that make you fuzzyheaded after a bath. Speaking of bathtime, it has become your favorite acitivity now that I have consented to join you, cradling you on my chest and floating you on your back, submerged in the warmth of the deep water. Your mouth drops open and your eyes go wide with surprise and then you relax and giggle, moving your mouth in guppy fish motions as if you'd like to drink the entire contents of the tub.

Your hands have opened to the world and while you still aren't reaching out for that first can of beer yet, you'll grab my hair or knead my chest with your little fingers while you drift off to sleep. The birds on your mobile and the bears on your pack n play have suddenly become your new best friends. You chatter away at them in half hour conversations, presumably about the weather and the crappy variety of food offered around here. We have a million stupid little nicknames for you... most of which end in face for some reason. O face, pumpkin face, cry face, poop face. But our favorite, which I have promised your father we can continue to call you until you're ten, is bobblehead. It's been shortened recently to Bobble, which seems to fit your smiley, nodding head personality perfectly.

We were in the grocery store today and I found myself unable to shop, unable to converse, totally oblivious to the world moving in its unaltered course around me. I had my head stuck into your infant carrier, making fish face despite the fact that I was in public because it made you literally throw your head back and laugh. Fish face! When I showed your father he was equally enthralled and we drifted down the aisles, endangering old women and small children with our wayward cart as we fishfaced you into giggles. Then and there I decided that when you go off to college, I may hug you and cry, but the last thng I'll do is make fishface at you from the car window. Because, I hope, you'll still think it's hilarious.

Letters to the O

One Month

I hope I won't make people gag on the cliche when I say it is impossible to believe it's only been a month since you were born. I feel like I must have known you my whole life. I remember growing up and realizing with awe that my Mom was going to be the only person who would know me my whole life, from the very beginning moments until the tumultous present. A strange and humbling idea.

I've poured over every inch of your baby skin, learning the contours of your bones. I've spent long mintues gazing into your wide, wide eyes and wondering what on earth you could possibly be thinking about in there. Nachos... nipples... water skiing? I've memorized very baby noise, the intonation of every cry in an effort to cross our communication barrier. I had a dream the other night that you were some kind of boy wonder and suddenly began to speak. And not just a few coos and garbled syllabels, but full sentences falling from your baby lips as if you'd been waiting to speak to me since day one.

I find myself often wondering how much of what I know of you now, in your messy babiness, will be uniquely yours later in life. Will you still make that O face, with your saucer eyes and chubby cheeks? Is that wide, toothless grin that crinkles the corners of your eyes the same one I'll see at five and ten and twenty years from now? Will you still have hair on your back and the fringes of your ears like some sort of prehistoric caveman? And are those enormous feet omens of your future, where we'll have to buy special shoes from off the internets just to find some that fit? Those long, long fingers- will they play a concierto by eight or know the curve of a baseball intimately by five? The future seems incredibly wide and spacious for you. And I spend my time wondering what I can do to give you every opportunity and advantage under the sun.

In the meantime we rest and feed and sleep. You're on the doorstep of sleeping through the night and have given me a six hour stretch recently. Your father and I are going to reclaim our bed this week, but you'll be an arms reach away for now. Where I can still hear your grunts and sighs and fuss and know that you're really here with us and not a dream.

Letters to the O

Three Weeks

We've decided to succumb to the inevitable. We gave you the dreaded NUK this week, mostly in an attempt to save my poor nipples and induce sedated sleep without resorting to drugs. It works well, except when it falls out of your mouth, which is just about every thirty seconds on average. It's hard to feel sorry for you though, wailing away when the thing is just inches from your mouth and you don't have the coordination to get it there. Even Miles could manage that feat of dexterity.

Everyday seems we stumble on another milestone. I hadn't expected them to come so quickly. Just the other day, you smiled at me- a sincere grin of recognition. Hey, I remember you. You're the lady with the milk. I like you. And then yesterday, you grabbed an inanimate object in your hand- quite by a