This kid is nine months old.
Oh my nine month old tiny person,
You talk. Or at least you want to talk. All the time. ALL. THE. TIIIIIME.
“Cahhhhh….t,” you whisper whenever the cats walk by, as you reach your hand out in an attempt to grab a puffy tail. “Caahh….t.” The T joins the rest of the word as an after thought, like you’re mumbling an incantation that you have trouble remembering.
“Dadadadadada …” this is your favorite word and you say it in a jumbled rumble. We know you mean business when you pare it down to simply, “Dad.” It sounds official without the “adadadada” suffix. Dad. Can I have a cell phone, Dad? I don’t want to go to baseball practice, Dad. Stop with all the dad jokes, DAD.
“Bob! Bob! Bob!!” is another word that you like to yell … often. We don’t have a Bob in our family, so we’re assuming “bob” might be a bottle, only we’re having trouble correlating those two things. Unless there’s a secret Robert trolling around the place, in which case you’re the only one who can see him.
“Mamamamamamamamamaaaaaaaa.” How I love to hear that word, even if it’s hollered through the baby monitor at 4 in the morning. “Mama!!” You know it’s me. You don’t say it often but when you do say it, I melt and am ready to buy you any color pony you want.
This morning, I attempted to gently wipe away the booger mustache that had emerged and hardened onto your face overnight (ew), I realized you’ve been part of our family long enough that I have very little memory of “before.” I’ve always been your mom. I’ve always been discouraging you from peeling off my Dexcom sensor. (“No, don’t pick mommy’s sensor,” I admonish and you expertly side-eye me, knowing I picked your nose only moments earlier.) You’ve always been my boy. We’ve always been a team.
You are a handful. No joke. You want to climb me like I’m a tree and you’re the monkey scuttling to the top. (Only you are a particularly deft monkey and you manage to stick your toe right on the bit of my c-section scar that is regaining feeling and it totally feels super weird.) You wiggle and giggle all the time. Unlike your sister, you are discerning with your smile. You don’t let loose with it constantly, but instead it has to be earned. Once we earn it, the whole room lights up in response to your still-toothless grin.
At the suggestion of our pediatrician, you’ve tried all the “allergy foods” and so far, so good. Peanut butter and banana is a mash up you LIVE for, and homemade apple sauce goes with everything (including broccoli … sorry for the weird and future-blech food pairings, kiddo). We’re keeping you off gluten until you’re 15 months old (like we did with Birdzone), but the Happy Baby gluten-free puffs and gf bread we bake here at home fills you just fine. Despite being tooth-free, you gum the hell out of everything we serve you, and being the messiest eater I’ve ever encountered, you have a lot of baths, too.
You’ve discovered pump tubing (SO FUN!) and glucose tab jars (BEST RATTLE!) and when my insulin cartridge is low, the beeping sound has woken you up accidentally more than once (DAMN IT!), but my diabetes is secondary to your cute self.
Little Guy, you are a joy. A bit small for your age, you make up for your size with a personality that is gigantic. We’re grateful for you, and all the chaos and happiness that comes with you.