Month Eight

Dear Grayson,

Normally Mommy isn't a slacker. Really. And, normally she wouldn't post something twelve days late. But, then, well, you were born. And, while Mommy didn't become a slacker, she did find other things a bit more absorbing than typing (which, incidentally, Mommy both loves and finds a bit troublesome). And so, now, twelve days after you officially turned eight months old, you'll have an update (and so will this blog).

Today when I dropped you off at the babysitter's home (and I mean, really, "babysitter" is really such a lackluster term for what S. does for you, which is to love you and cuddle you and feed you and rearrange her family's life for you at times), she said, "Grayson, you've changed! I don't know how...but you just look...different." Daddy mentioned the other night that the only thing that was keeping you from looking like a little boy as opposed to a baby, was the lack of hair (in which case you also might look like your grandfathers). I have packed numerous boxes full of "little baby boy" clothes to hand off to friends and marvel at how long you are now. And, man, you are a LONG kid ("95th percentile", your mother remarks proudly, as if my 5'2" would foretell the future Michael Jordan that you would become [the Michael Jordan minus the basketball, as your papa and I aren't big sports fanatics...unless you want to do it...and then we'll comply...maybe...and only after your piano lessons...and chess club meetings...and Math trivia bowl challenges...and figure skating competitions...and stamp collecting exhibitions...after which you'll take the slide ruler out of your pocket and inform us that you're not going to be the nerd we're raising you to be any more, because you have your own life, dammit. And you'll march right out to the garage in your Milli-Vanilli T-shirt and work on the engine of your 1983 Chevy for the demolition derby]).

You are an incredibly versatile little creature now. You have practically demolished your Rainforest Jumperoo (which is a gift from the gods [and your grandparents]). You set your feet in motion and jump to heights yet unseen in this house, or unseen at least since Cooper fell off that bookshelf in the library and practically fractured his bad hip. Your motion in the jumperoo, the back and forthing of it all reminds me of Grandpa Herman's docked fishing boats as they rock in the waves on Chapman Lake and slam into the used tires he hangs over the seawall as cushions, and somehow in the Miller world of poetry that thought is actually deeply sentimental and not at all like the start of a bad Ernest Hemmingway novel and makes me a little weepy. You'll never know Great-Grandpa hauling you around in one of his fishing boats while you wear a life preserver three sizes too big. To you, he will be the gentle man who holds you closely and, occasionally confuses you with one of your other second cousins. But, perhaps, someone else could someday repeat his deeds in an old green rowboat in the shallows of Chapman Lake in years to come.

You've finally come to your senses and uttered the magical words, "Ma Ma." You said it for the first time on the way home from your babysitter's one day (actually it was on December 4th at nearly 5:07 p.m. but who's counting?). You punctuated the syllables loudly and when I turned around in astonishment, barely missing swerving into the SUV next to us, you laughed. It was as if you were just waiting for the right moment, for the cinematic effect. Now you regale me daily with those delightful words. And maybe 12% of the time you're actually referring to me.

Crawling? Not such a big deal to you. Everytime we put you on your tummy, you happily roll back over onto your back and giggle. Sitting up? You can. Do you want to? Not so much. Mostly, you like to sit up for 8.2 seconds and then throw yourself dramatically backward (usually onto pillows or my lap) and laugh. You prefer that the world comes to you as you recline on your back, just as Cooper comes to you whenever you yelp for his furry love. I don't want to throw the word "lazy" about, or surmise where this trait comes from, but there was one parent who's baby book used that word in reference to him. The other parent's baby book was abundantly laden with various incarnations of the sentence, "she is very careful." Hmmmm...

You are the most amazing creature I've ever encountered. I love to watch you learn and unfold and grow. I love to be your mama. I love to have you for a son.

Mama