Seven (and a half) months

Dear Howie,

It was inevitable, really. Apparently, ear infections run in our family.

But you know what, peanut? Our only clue that you were sick? Was the unending river of nasty that ran out of your ear. There was no petulance, no ear-grabbing, no sleepless nights, no refusal to eat, fevers, clinginess, nothing. Your ear just looked like you'd shoved a handful of pear puree in your ear--repeatedly--daily--hourly. And then let it slowly leak out. Think runny nose. Only out your ear.

Grossed out yet? Happy to share, my son!

Apparently your eardrum ruptured ("Totally normal," your doctor says. Which--ew!) which meant that your ear was infected enough to tear through your eardrum and you still were your rosy-cheeked, sweet, normal, investigative self.

Like, seriously? To paraphrase a famous nun, I must have done something damn good to deserve you.

Thanksgiving with you was a blast and a half. Mashed potatoes sent you into raptures of gnarlitude, complete with choking and shudders and wiping your tongue. Mark me, I will remind you of this when you go for thirds when you're a teenager, because that was certainly what you looked like--a teenager being asked to try something like kimchee or brussel sprouts, which, by the way, do deserve the whole-body shudders. Mashed potatoes, you will find out, most assuredly do not.

But yams and squash and pears and apples and bananas and peaches and beans and peas are all A-OK by you. I pick you up from daycare every day, and if you're awake, you see me across the room and grin and you've started holding your hands out to each side as a "Pick me UP!" signal which I never thought could turn my heart to mush but it so does. We run home and settle in and you sit in your high chair and nibble on Cheerios while I put your dinner together and then I sit down with your daily dish and I can't get it in you fast enough--you lead with your open mouth like a baby bird, but you have conversations with me the entire time.

You've got things to say, kid.

I know I only have like two weeks until your next monthly letter is due, but we have a lot of crap to do in the meantime. It's your first Christmas, homey! Your first plane trip, your first meeting with the rest of your cousins and aunts and uncles and don't worry, you won't be expected to know everyone's names (I'm still working on it) and your first true overnight outside of your home, but this is gonna be awesome.

You are SO close to crawling. You sit--you're pretty expert at that now--not quite black belt but definitely red belt--and there's something juuuuuust beyond your reach. You reach--and reach--and reach--and one of your feet goes behind your butt--and you reach--but that other leg just stays stuck in front of you. I love sitting near you and just watching as your focus keeps you trying. I don't know if you'll wait til 2009 to crawl.

There's one more milestone that you haven't hit yet, though, dude. I don't want to pressure you, but it starts with t and rhymes with shmeeth. No one never grows teeth, right? It's not a criticism, because my nipples are appreciative, but... dude, you don't even have blisters as if teeth are even coming soon. I'm not freaking out (exactly)... it's just weird.

So I have one small request--you've put it off this long, can you wait til we're done with airtravel before deciding to finally join the dental bandwagon? Thanks, buds, that'd be great. Because knowing you, you're going to go from toothless to BAM! an Orbit grin, like, overnight. One long, sleepless, cranky overnight.

Or, maybe you feel no pain and like your ears, my first clue will be your mouth full of teeth. In which case, either you are awesome or we are the most un-noticing parents in the history of parents. You know, either way.

Stay cool, kiddo.

xoxo
your mama.