December 27, 2006
8 Months
Bean, this month�s theme has been mobility. Your crawling has put an end to my setting you on the floor and leaving to pee, assured that you would not move more than two feet in any direction. Now, you sit up, crawl, and stand as if it were old hat.
You started crawling like Lon Cheney. Your left leg would hit the floor with its knee like normal, but your right leg would hit the floor with the ball if your foot, giving you a swagger adopted only by Johnny Depp and zombies. Your arms would sprawl all the way in front of you before slapping the carpet to take a step. That was about three weeks ago. Now you crawl like every baby in the movies (the extent of my baby experience) on both knees and not moaning about BRRRAIIINNNSSS.
The cat still owns the high ground, but as soon as you spot the cat on the ground, you take off on a no-holds-barred rampage after Ruby. Ruby has finally realized that her Laser Glares of Extreme Disappointment, which work so effectively on your father and me, are no match for you. You giggle and titter every time she moves, and it scares the bejeezus out of the cat. Her only comfort is knowing that you adore being caged off in your playpen.
We bought Cell Block B because it�s collapsible and it�s a little bit bigger than a standard playpen. We keep it in the loft to put boundaries on you and your wandering, cat-hunting ways. I thought that you�d hate being confined like that while mommy is typing � on something with buttons! You, however, love it, and while I have you in my lap while I type, you cast your eyes longingly to your cell, and it�s obvious that you�d soooo much rather be in jail than with me. You adore your Cell Block, and both the cat and I are grateful for a moment�s peace while you�re in it, cooing stories to your stuffed animals and chewing the stuffed carrot attached to the bunny board book your Nounna gave you.
You�ve become incredibly attached to me, and squeal and snort with delight when I clamber into the Cell Block to play with you. You cry when I leave the room, which at first was heartwarming, but now just hurts dad�s ear drums while he patiently holds his squalling daughter in the mornings while I get your bottle ready.
You started standing this month, too. You pull yourself up using any ottoman, plastic dinosaur toy, crib rail, or seated human near you. We thought it was really cute to walk into your bedroom after just putting you down to sleep and see you standing, grasping the crib rail and smiling at whoever caused light to shine in your room. But then the unpleasant truth became known: you could stand up, but you could not sit down. And so began the long nights of hearing you wake up, coo for a while, and then holler and yowl until one of us trudged into your room to release you from your standing position and lay you down again, a process to be repeated every five minutes until you passed out from exhaustion. If we, instead, let you yowl yourself into a solution alone, you would fall asleep standing up, fall over, smack your head on the crib rail, and REALLY let us have it.
It took two days of playing �baby uuuup, baby dowwwwwn� with momma on the floor before you figured out that you can get back down on your bottom without taking out the furniture on the way down. You�re a quick study, and ready to bite off more than you can chew at any time. Gee, I wonder who you inherited that from?
You had your first Christmas, and you now have all sorts of toys that make all sorts of noise from your grandmother. There�s the dancing penguin named Pablo, who sings very high-pitched songs about his backyard. Unfortunately, you LOVE him, so dad won�t let the batteries magically disappear from his torso.
Your first Christmas allowed you almost unlimited access to the most awesome substance in your universe: paper. You love the crinkle sound it makes as you swing it over your head and slam it down inches from the cat�s tail. You love eating it, but then can�t figure out what to do with the slobby bits stuck in your mouth. Up to this point, one of your favorite papery treats is my pad of Post-its. I�m forever fishing yellow slobbery bits of pulp from your mouth and your eyebrows.
You�re my sweetheart, my sunshine, and my little little Bean. We�re attached at the hip, and I wouldn�t have it any other way. You can have all the Post-its you want; just marry a doctor and give me grandchildren that I can ply with annoying, noisy toys.
Love,
Mama
Posted by Jen at December 27, 2006 1:24 PM