Sunday, May 13, 2012

To Nolan, on his 1st Mother's Day

Dear Nolan Grey,

Today is my first real Mother's Day.

(Last year you were 'here', but I still couldn't see you, so I don't think that one really counts.)

Right now you're rolling around in your walker, and staring out the kitchen window at Muscles, who is relaxing and terrorizing lizards on the patio.  . . .Muscles has become a bit of a reclusive, hedonistic cat since we gave him outdoor privileges.   Or, "yard time."  He has decided that he wants yard time to be ALL the time.  He's like a teenager with a girlfriend now---we never see him.

Ash Ferley, on the other hand, prefers to stay indoors most of the time.  He likes to sleep curled up under the desk, on top of the computer tower.  (I honestly don't know what that thing is called.  . . . That's probably sad.)  Unfortunately for Ash, his preferred resting spot is precisely walker-height.  And you have wasted no opportunity to try and screw with him if you see him resting there.  I have personally seen you cat-slapped several times.  (Think me cruel if you must, but thank goodness Ash has no front claws.  It would've been bloody.)

You're only nine months old. . . but it feels like I've known you for my whole life. . .

You've already caused several bits of mischief around the house, cat-slapping aside. . .

You threw your tennis shoe, and a bowl full of fruit loops, into the toilet.  You run for the refrigerator or the pantry every time we open the door.  Seriously---it's like a mad dash.  The door opens up, you stick your arms out in a Superman pose, and race furiously toward whatever has just been opened.  If it's the fridge, you immediately try to remove the bottles of milk and cola.  If it's the pantry, you prefer to pilfer the contents of the trash can.  The dryer--you just like to bang on the door.  (You like the sound it makes =)  The dishwasher?  My baby goes straight for the knives.  . . . I'm just SO proud!

You have pulled the runner off of the kitchen table, bringing with it (and destroying) the beautiful ceramic fruit bowl my mother gave me.  When I found you out, before you had the good sense to look remorseful, you actually laughed out loud, like:  Look what I did!!

You're teething right now, so you have good days and bad days, but I can honestly say you are the sweetest baby I have ever seen.  (And I am being COMPLETELY impartial here.  For real.)  You wake up smiling every day, you laugh and coo and gurgle to yourself and anyone around you.  ---You generally have at least some small contribution to every phone conversation that I have these days.  Thank you for that.---  And even as I type this, you are trying like mad to open the cabinet door behind which we keep the liquor and the cat food.

I have seriously got to baby-proof this house. . .

But I'm getting off-subject here.

I just wanted to try and tell you what life was like for you at nine months of age:

We spent today like we spend most every day-- except you slept until almost 8:00, instead of 5 or 6 a.m.  Thanks for that, kiddo.  Then I propped up on the couch and gave you your breakfast bottle.  Devin was here for the weekend, so it was the three of us, under various afghans or throws, waking up and watching Spongebob Squarepants.  When your brother is NOT here---we watch Game of Thrones.  Your mommy is crazy for that show.  (Seriously awesome.)  But it is *very* graphic and very violent, and if I thought you could understand ANY of it, we'd have to stop watching it now.  But I don't.  You're generally too busy trying to pull Ash's tail, or contemplating whatever clothing is on your feet for that day, to pay any attention to the Mother of Dragons.

Your daddy worked last night, so we tried to play quietly until he got up at 11:00. . . but keeping you AND Devin quiet for several hours straight is an arduous task.  And not entirely that successful.  But you had a good morning, playing with Devin and rolling around the house.  (I call you Hot Wheels.  I also call you Tookie.  I'm going to have to stop, or you will hate me for it one day.  Though I DO think 'Tookie' would make a great street-name.)

We live in a 3-bedroom, cottage-type house, with what is fast becoming a beautiful back yard, thanks to your Daddy.  When we moved in, and I was enormously pregnant with you, we planted a tree in the middle of the back yard.  It's a flowering pear tree, and it is beautiful.  It's your tree.

You smile whenever anyone talks to you, you are into absolutely EVERYTHING, you can say Mama and Dada and even bye-bye (sometimes), and you can clap your hands.  Just saw you do it today.

You amaze me.

And I would like to apologize to you, and to my husband, for being an emotional wreck today, because even now--I can't stop crying.

Nine months.  Every day.  And I still can't believe that you're real.

I don't know if I'm a good mother yet.  I know that I'm trying.  And I know that I love you and just think you're the most perfect, wonderful, delightfully mischievous child that the sun ever rose on.  And I know that you love saltine crackers more than almost anything. 

. . .Later, we will settle down for the night.  Sweet-smelling oatmeal lotion will be applied, as well as a clean diaper, and we'll snuggle down on the couch together with a bottle. 

I will watch t.v. and rock you, and you will fall asleep in my arms.  Then I will carry you upstairs, put you gently in your crib, and turn on the little white-noise machine, that is currently set to Rain.

And you will sleep.

. . . . . .

I guess it's okay to cry sometimes. . . just because sometimes you feel so undeserving of everything you have.

Bless you all the days of your life, Little Tookie.

I love you, Nolan Grey. 

Now get out of the liquor cabinet.


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