shokufeh is…home

Dear MrMan,

Now that you’ve hit the double digits, I guess I should switch to tracking your age in months? You’ve now been living outside of me for about one quarter of the time you lived inside of me. I know the current accomodations aren’t always as comfortable as the old ones – not as warm and cozy and weightless – but you seem to be handling it pretty well. In fact, I think I’d go so far as to say you like this new life of yours.

You’re generally very good natured, finding delight in the little things. You enjoy having your mouth wiped, in general and after eating. It tends to put a big smile on your face. Unless you’re not really done eating, in which case you quickly let your displeasure with the mouth wipe be known. Quite handy way to let me know if you’re sated, actually. (Another key that you’re done eating, especially when you’re nursing at night, is the cute little grunt you often make right before stopping.) I usually wipe your mouth with a cloth diaper. Cloth diapers are also your new favorite toy. You are thrilled to have a cloth diaper waved in front of your face. And, if I wrap it on top of your head, your ecstasy can hardly be contained, resulting in a full-body dance. Other pieces of fabric capture your interest, but none as much as a thin cloth diaper. Your new favorite song is “Head, shoulders, knees, and toes….” I usually sing it to you while you sit against my thighs, and I use my hands to point out your body parts. You’re often smiling by the time I get to “shoulders,” definitely grinning by the time I get to “mouth.”

Sometimes, when you’re talking, you sound so expressive – usually happy, sometimes sorrowful – that I feel a little guilty that I pretend to understand you, responding with questions and affirmations and coos. You’re often giddy while having your diaper changed, hardly able to stay still long enough for me to put the diaper on securely. But you don’t complain about dirty diapers. Your energy level almost makes me wonder if you’re really my child (that’s a joke, you’re not adopted) – you’re always on the go. When you’re eating, you’re often doing leg exercises. You prefer to stand than sit down. You prefer to sit down than lie down. I’m usually ready for a nap before you are. You’re very good at getting us to carry you around the apartment – go, go, go.

In addition to becoming more communicative, you’ve become more comfortable with spending time alone. So much so that Daddy and I went to Mexico last weekend. Just kidding. But I am more able to eat these days, as I can put you in your bouncer, or reclining on the boppy or a cushion on the couch, or in your swing, while I get something from the kitchen. And then you watch me eat every morsel. You seem truly fascinated with watching me and Daddy put food in our mouths and chewing. You’re not as captivated by the later process, but that’s okay, as I’d probably develop performance anxiety. However, you’re quite content to sit in your bouncer in the doorway of the bathroom – I think you understand that I’m doing important work as I sit there.

Maybe by the time you read this, you’ll be in a phase where you find it hard to believe – you enjoy baths. You sit there very contentedly while I wash you, and don’t even mind getting water in your face. You start smiling when a warm washcloth hits your face in the morning. Or when the aspirator goes up your nose. Yes, you sit still as I attempt to suck out your boogers. I think this is something you’ve gotten from me, as I hate to have anything interfering with my airflow.

Speaking of air, you have very loud farts. They’re so loud that I can’t even call them goozes, as it seems too subtle of a word. They make Daddy and me crack up. We know we need to change that, so that you learn that the appropriate thing to do is to say, “excuse me.” But it’s so hard not to laugh when such a big sound is coming from such a small person, especially when it’s accompanied by one of your signature fists in the air – kind of the way Superman flies.

Even though you don’t wear shoes, and you rarely wear socks, your feet smell like feet. This also makes us giggle. I guess it’s not just the shape of your feet that you got from your dad. But the way you curl your toes is definitely like my side of the family.

One of your new habits I’m not so fond of is the thumbsucking. You don’t do it all the time, but you’re very adept at getting just the thumb into your mouth, with the rest of your fingers splayed above. It’s so cute. And it provides a way for you to comfort yourself. But I’m still hoping it’s just a phase, and I give you a pacifier when you seem in the mood for sucking but not wanting milk.

Another thing that gets me a little down is that you’re getting too big for me. Of course, I will always be here for you, but I mean that your body is getting too big for mine. You’re too long to make sweat sandwiches with me anymore – you just don’t seem to find it comfortable. I would never purposely stand in the way of your growth, of whatever kind, but it still makes me a little sad. On the other hand, high five to you and your healthy appetite. Thankfully, I do get vicarious pleasure from seeing you sleeping on Daddy, who has more real estate than I do – the way you sprawl on his belly, virtually every evening, is adorable.

Maybe you’ve seen the outfit of yours that has baby animals and their parents on it, and the collar that says, “I love you more than…?” It’s true – I love you more than [anything I can think of].

Love,
Mommy

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In 11 days, I return to work. Such a sad Monday that will be. I think it will be quite an adjustment for all of us. For MrMan, who will start receiving his meals through a bottle, rather than directly from the source, and won’t have some spastic lady constantly singing and dancing for him. For Sam, who will be home with MrMan, instead of at the office. For me, who will have to put on something other than boxer shorts and stained t-shirts, interact with other adults, and type with both hands. I was about to say that I would have to discuss something other than poop, but then I realized that, very often, my job does involve discussing poop. It just won’t be MrMan’s poop.

Unrelated (yet, about being related): both of my brothers and I were sick last week. How strange is that? None of us are the sickly sort and we live in three different time zones, but all of us fell ill. My first fever in years really drove home that you can’t call in sick to motherhood.

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If there were a market for baby drool, MrMan would have already paid for his college education. And mine.

A girl can dream. People pay big money for cream made from baby foreskins, in hopes of making their faces look young. They also pay a lot to drink deep sea water. Maybe baby drool is the next big thing. But I probably shouldn’t collect and store it in anticipation.

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Falling asleep at night isn’t much of a problem for MrMan. But, in the daytime, when he gets tired, he usually goes through some crying to get to his needed sleep. Yesterday and today, however, I popped in some 10,000 Maniacs and he was soothed to sleep by the voice of Natalie Merchant. Much less painful for both of us.

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The stuff that mommy blogs are made of….

2005 was my year of no-poop. 2006 is slated to be my year of poop. And we’ve started it off with a bang. Thankfully, the great and revealing mommy bloggers prepared me for it. I knew the day was coming, but how appropriate that the day turned out to be January 1, the start of a new Gregorian year. Yes, I’m speaking of that milestone of the first (probably of many) squirt up and out of the top of the back of the diaper.

The three of us celebrated the first day of the year by going to the mall to look at laptops and complete a few other errands. Soon after we arrived, MrMan started crying, so I buckled on the Baby Bjorn (or BB – highly recommend, by the way) and popped him in. He was asleep soon after, and Sam and I walked around for a couple of hours. When we got back to the car, I lifted the sleeping MrMan out of the BB, noticing a little yellow stain along the leg opening of his onesie. I put an extra cloth diaper under him in his car seat and buckled him in. I then examined myself for the corresponding yellow stain, finding it in the form of a little blob on the BB. Then I noticed that the part of the BB that encloses MrMan’s back was wet. Sweat? Urine?

When we got home, I took MrMan and out of his seat and was surprised to find that the back of his once white onesie was now yellow with poop leakage – the day I’d been waiting for, but hadn’t quite expected, was finally here. I was somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of poop and the extent of its spread, but I finally got him cleaned up. Yay for him being good natured about it.

Then I went and marked a notch on my mommy belt.

*A play on My Year of Meats by Ruth Ozeki

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