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Posts tagged ‘my son’

One Year Old.

To my tomato,

A year ago today, I was driving up to Boston for another prenatal appointment to check on you.  At 38 weeks and 2 days pregnant, a slightly spikey blood pressure was enough for the medical team at Beth Israel to decide that August 23rd would be your birthday.

It was late in the afternoon when they prepped me for surgery.  The sun was bright and shining in through the windows of the operating room, and I couldn’t even tell you the name of the doctor who delivered you, as I was so nervous about your arrival.  Would you be healthy?  Would you be okay?

In a combination of perseverance, hard-earned good health, and a dash of excellent luck, you were born into the world a healthy,easy-going little guy who made my heart actually ache, it was so full.

Re-entering the land of snappy onesies, breastfeeding, and no sleep was a jarring change, as my mom brain was fully immersed in the land of independent kids, but we fell back into step with your little guy needs pretty quickly.  This second time around, your dad and I were better about packing lighter, not buying every baby thing that Parenting magazine deemed “essential,” and we busted out some hand-me-downs from your sister (crib, dresser, stroller, high chair, a bin full of Batman pajamas in varying sizes … we saved everything).

And once we had our footing a bit, you were thrown immediately into our family traditions, from big, messy birthday parties to trips to Orlando for conferences to visiting Bar Harbor.  Even though you’re only a year old, it feels like you’ve been occupying the room across from your sister’s room forever, as though your bookcase filled with favorite books has always been there, your banana toothbrush in the holder in the Batman bathroom always.

You have two teeth that popped out just in time for your birthday.  You have taken several steps but haven’t started full-on walking because you seem to become so amused by your own mobility that you collapse into a giggling heap after a couple steps.  Your hair is light brown and super curly, all unruly and lovely.  Your laugh is loud and boisterous.  You love when the neighborhood kids come by to high-five you, and swinging in the baby swings at any playground, and when the cat saunters by you drop everything to creepily whisper “… caaaaaaaat.”

Little Guy, you have the most mellow, sunny disposition and once someone earns your smile, it lights up the entire state of Rhode Island.

Your sister is my favorite because she is my first.  You are my favorite because you are my last.  Our family is complete because of you; you fill the fourth chair.  I love you and the crazy chaos you’ve brought into our lives.

Happy birthday, my littlest friend.

Love,
Mom

Eleven and the Harmonimato.

Hey there little Guy,

“YEAH!” is your favorite word.  You are a crawling affirmation of everything.  You make me feel a teeny bit like I gave birth to Lil Jon.  YEAH!

“YEAH!!”

All the time, from you.  “YEAH!!”  At the grocery store and in the car and at Grammie’s and when we pick Birdy up from camp.  “YEAH!”  While you’re eating, when you’re in the tubby, at the airport.  “YEAH!”

You crack me up.

Tiny tomato man, you are eleven months old.  Just a few weeks shy of marking your first year as part of our family, and you might be the busiest little person I’ve ever encountered.  You aren’t walking (yet) and you don’t have even the whisper of a tooth (despite excessive drooling and gnawing on my shoulder anytime I’m carrying you), but you seem SO BIG and you are on the move all the damn time.  The days of the little baby Guy are way behind us as I watch you rocket towards toddlerhood, chasing cats and destroying block towers as you go.

Foods that make you happy?  Peanut butter, bananas, black olives (you’re weird), and fresh baked gluten free banana bread.  And your new love for the tomatoes that have finally sprung up in our container garden on the deck is a sight to see.  (You also play them like harmonicas.  Harmonimatoes?)

And you have discovered my diabetes devices.  They’re toys to you.  The smooth, shiny screen of my insulin pump astounds you and you like to wrap the tubing around your fingers.  My CGM sensor has become a climbing tool when you use me as your human rock wall.  And sometimes when you hug me, I have to move my pump from my bra to keep you from bonking your head, but that’s par for the course.  Welcome to life with mommy’s devices, kiddo.

Without a doubt, your favorite person on the planet is your sister.  You two hang out in the living room, surrounded by your toys, giggling madly at one another.  She makes silly faces, you lose your mind laughing.  She sings you songs and you yell, “YEAH!” to encourage her to keep going.  When she lets you crawl all over her, you gently but deftly pick her nose and grab her braids and smother her with baby kisses and she loves every, single minute of it.  You two are two loud peas in a pod, despite the years between you.

And as your teeth are poking at your gums to come in, Birdy’s are hinting towards falling out.  Just after you turn one, she’ll climb on the bus en route to second grade.  And yet you are so the same.  Neither one of your will stop talking.  Both of you have infectious grins.

And both of you fill my heart in a way that’s beyond words.

Happy almost-birthday, little Guy.  Yeah!!

Love,
Mama

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.

Love,
Mamamamamaaaaaa

Seven Months.

To my Little Guy,

Suddenly, you’re not so little.

Over the last few weeks, you’ve growth-spurted in a way that’s made every plant in this house super jelly.  Pajamas that once fit with room to spare are threatening to hulk out at the feet and your appetite is already edging towards the scary things that moms of teenage boys told me.  (“Prepare to have him eat you out of house and home!!!” they said, running to their second job that pays solely for their son’s lunch consumption.)  Despite still running small for your age, you’re a completely proportionate tiny human tank.

Food is your favorite thing, after your sister and making the “pppbbbblllllltt” noise with your mouth.  Most often you can be found in the high chair eating sweet potatoes,  scrambled eggs, peanut butter and bananas mashed together (that’s your favorite this month), and your hands.  Still no gluten until you’re over a year old, like we did with your sister.

You’d very much like the cats to be your friends, but so far only Loopy will give you the time of day.  She comes up and purrs maniacally, weaving herself in and out of your reach and letting you pet (mash) her on the head.  Siah, on the other hand, is horrified by your existence and keeps serious distance between her fur and your paws.

Unrelated:  Squirrels and chipmunks seem to like you just fine and they grin at you when we go from the front door to the car.

Side eye because he knows it ain't Valentine's Day. #anachronisticbib

A post shared by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

I finished breastfeeding recently and you’re now on formula.  Ending breastfeeding was a difficult choice but one kind of forced, in part, by the eye injury that resurfaced a few weeks ago.  I wasn’t able to feed you because I couldn’t see or manage pain very well during that episode of corneal chaos, so you were receiving pumped breastmilk instead of being able to latch on to me.  Fast forward a few days once I had recovered and putting you on my breast didn’t produce food fast enough for you, so you fussed and freaked out.  Back to bottles of breastmilk (and formula) until pumping wasn’t an option anymore, either.  (Not being able to physically feed you myself slowed production down to nothing.  And yes, I’m writing about breastfeeding you again.  Stop rolling your eyes.)

With the stopping of breastfeeding finally brought an end to the deluge of pregnancy-related hormones that took up intense residence in my body, and that’s been a very positive mental shift.  The postpartum anxiety thing has tapered off quite a bit, in part due to cognitive behavioral therapy once a week and also the lack of hormonal influence.  (We also joined a gym, you and I … more on that in a non-you post.)  I’m feeling like I’m more capable of taking good care of you instead of feeling like I’m holding on to everything by a thread.

And with a more relaxed mindset, I’ve realized you’re it … the last little baby I’ll ever have.  Watching you grow so fast has made me want to slow time down.  Which translates into you and I reading a lot of books together, or going for walks with your stroller.  We snuggle, often.  And I like to look into your eyes and wonder what color they’ll eventually settle on.  Time goes by very quickly and I am trying to spend as much of it as I can with you and your sister.

We’re lucky to have you, little Guy.  So very lucky.  And while I want to enjoy the little friend that you are, I am looking forward to seeing whoever it is you become.

Now go to sleep.

Love,
Mom

Sixaroo.

Little Guy,

Six months old!!  Is what you are.  Indeed, six months ago you were all coiled up in my belly like a snake ready to strike into our lives, which sounds super violent but was more super exhausting and super cute than anything else.  Hey, run on sentence, there you are.

We’re at the point with you where we can’t exactly remember what it was like NOT to have you in our lives.  A highchair in our kitchen?  Always.  The extra bedroom suddenly inhabited by a crib and a stack of diapers?  Always.  The laundry machines churning and burning at all hours, for all eternity?  ALWAYS.  We’ve always had mashed bananas in a bowl.  We’ve always had a giggling little monster man.

We’ve always had you, kiddo.

This Guy. 🍅

A post shared by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

Now, at six months old, you have left behind that squishy infant baby person and have become this full-faced, big-eyed little grabby-handed peanut.  You love to grab your feet and try to force them into your mouth.  You think my nose is something removable and you attempt its removal daily.  You laugh – hard – anytime anyone startles you.  (Except the other night, at that restaurant, when the automatic hand dryer in the bathroom made you lose your mind with fear.  Poor little fella.  You sobbed so hard that a woman who was about to dry her hands threw them up in a panic and said, “I’ll drip dry!  Drip dry!  Poor little guy!!”)

On the food front, you’ve tried plenty of different tastes.  Pears are pretty popular.  Bananas are delicious.  Mashed cauliflower confused you but you ate it anyway.  Avocado could potentially be a friend.  But sweet potatoes are your JAM.  They make you delighted.  DELIGHTED.

Your favorite person isn’t me.  Or you dad.  Your favorite person is your sister.  Your whole face completely lights up with a smile reserved just for her whenever she talks to you.  The other night, while we were in New Hampshire for a few days, the two of you refused to fall asleep because you were too busy giggling.  She, playing peekaboo, and you, letting loose a belly laugh that could have caused an avalanche in the White Mountains.  She loves you, big time, and you return that love plus ten.

We snuggle often, you and I, and I love the moments right before you fall asleep for a nap, when you reach up and hold my face.  I love that.  LOVE.  It makes the memory of years of wanting you dull and fade, erasing so much of that pain and replacing it with love.  And spit up.  And diapers that I wouldn’t FedEx to my worst enemy.

But mostly love.

Love you, little Guy,
Mama

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