Dear @!#$! Baby.
You turned 11 months a week (and a day) ago and I turned in circles wondering where in hell exactly those eleven months have gone. I cannot believe you will be a year old already. Clearly, as my Pinterest board for your first birthday party remains untouched.
LOLZZZ just jokes.
You’re not having a party.
You continue to amaze and annoy me every day. You can throw a mean tantrum so I know you’re mine. You refuse to let anyone do anything physical for you. You’ve perfected the “Limp Noodle” when I try to clap your hands, hold you up to walk or do pretty much anything with your limbs. So that’s fun. You’d rather do things on your own than have assistance. Independent little beast.
You eat the shit out of mini bananas, jars of beef and those cheese puff things which are delicious but make your hands stink something fierce. You’ve choked twice in public and vommed as a result. Awesome. You love yogurt but I don’t think your digestive tract shares that adoration.
Half the time you are a bitch to feed and that sucks because according to the interwebz and our less than accurate bathroom scale, you’re hovering around the 18.5 pounds/5th percentile and that’s too tiny for my liking. And the doc’s, too, though I never did make that follow-up appointment and now by the time I get an appointment it’ll be for your one year anyway, so eff it. Color me a bad mom and get over it. I couldn’t have done anything different.
After you made me fetal position it up on the floor sobbing about not being able to feed you enough, I gave up. It was getting way too stressful on both of us trying to force feed you. You eat what you eat, sometimes it takes eight varieties of crap, sometimes you mow it down, sometimes the dog gets a feast. Whatevs. You seem healthy.
Your hearing checked out fine, although you are getting really good at tuning out “No”. Which is like all I ever say to you. Sometimes you chatter, much of the time you scream, when you’re tired you grunt and when you’re mad you scream MA! at me like Eric Cartman. So at least you say one consonant now. I’m not worrying about that whole basket of hypochondria. You’ll talk when you want to.
You still give kisses and they’re sloppy. You must have learned that from your father. Most of your kisses go for the nose and the recipient just gets licked, but occasionally you bite. Nose bites hurt. As do knee, toe and shoulder bites. Knock that shit off, teething fiend. It is !@#%! adorable when you kiss Dada over Skype, though. Except then my phone screen is sticky and smells of banana.
You’ve mastered (and love) climbing the stairs but can’t figure out the down part. You daredevil climb on EVERYTHING. You love walking with the little push walker deal and will occasionally get distracted by TV and just stand on your own. You’ve actually taken two steps unassisted, on the couch, which is especially impressive since it’s squishy. You’re getting waving down and sometimes you remember how to high five.
You love music and dancing! Minnesota Grandma plays 50’s music for you when we visit and you love it, but I can’t stomach it here. But you dig the Indie Children’s Pandora station, which I can handle, and the 90’s alternative plus the 15 new songs that DC 101 plays. You can booty drop with the pros. Your favorite songs are the theme songs to American Dad and The Cleveland Show which leads me to believe we should probably stop watching Netflix.
Little Buddy, we’re closing in on our first year together. It’s been a learning process and an adventure to say the least. I’m determined to have you walking by your birthday so get steppin’.
Love you and your stinky feet.