Monday, September 10, 2012

Dear Boy (8 months)

Dear Boy,

You are eight months old (and one week - sorry this is late!) and a moving machine. You're not crawling as such yet but rolling like a madman and doing these awesome three-point turns to redirect yourself wherever you want to go. Combined with a cocked leg you use like a rudder or a punting pole, a weird walrus maneuver and gradually getting your bum in the air, I don't think you're terribly far away from just taking off.

That scares me a little. You're already into everything and across the room if I turn my back on you for a minute or two. You are in love with the things you can't have: your Dad's garbage bin under his desk; the bag of night nappies under the coffee table and the CDs on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. 

You are also in love with your noisy hammer, the Fisher Price penguin with a see-through belly and tiny rattly fish inside and the cardboard box filled with shakey bottles and whatever else I throw in there.

You're doing much longer day sleeps now but haven't slept through the night for months now. Operation Dummy Removal was halted when you got a snuffly, snotty nose and needed the extra comfort while you slept. It's been lingering for weeks now and a few days ago it into a chesty cough. Although you're still so miraculously happy, it's taking it's toll on your sleep. We've propped up the end of the bed and have the vaporiser going, we've almost coated you in Euky Bearub, we've sprayed salty water up your nose and sucked entirely gross things back out. There's really not much else we can do except give you lots of cuddles and the occasional dose of nurofen when you wake up choking on mucous and crying in pain and tired frustration. The doctor said it's not serious: just bad enough to ruin your sleep but not bad enough for antibiotics or hospital. It's not fun, Dear Boy, for any of us. I'm hoping you feel better soon. 

You have given up on spoon food entirely, although I'm going to have to let you just have the spoon so you can teach yourself how it works. For now, I'm dumping everything on your tray and you're painting your face, your hair, your high chair and the floor in a gorgeous array of colours each day.  

You eat pretty much what we eat: pasta and meatballs, chicken curry, stir-fry. On the weekend, you and your Dad shared a naan bread and you ate some of my Thai beef salad. But your favourite is still toast. I can put anything on it and you'd still eat it. 

Your other favourite is yoghurt. This presents a dilemma because of the spoon issue, but I put my mama hat on and came up with a parental hack that's kept you happy and fed. Yes, I'd rather you were still eating the unflavoured natural yoghurt and I know it's not the best or the safest idea but it works... for now. 

At your recent health check, the Maternal Child Health nurse declared you perfect and who am I to argue with an expert. Your growth has slowed a little, although you're still up in the 95th percentile for height, weight and head size.  Your movement is great; you're chatterbox-ing up a storm with your 'dad-dad-dads' and 'ba-ba-bas' and 'ffff-fa-ffffs' and 'gaaaahhhmmms'  as well as the occasional 'yeah' and 'oh' and seem to understand some of the things we say; you're incredibly happy and such a charmer that women still pinch your cheeks and your lovely thighs or their eyes soften when they glimpse you in the pram as we're steaming past; 

You are lovely and your Dad and I are so glad that you're ours.

Love always,

Your mum. 

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