Monday, December 31, 2007

Month Nine

Dear Grayson,

It has been quite a month for you. You have asserted your independence by refusing to sit up unless your grandpa keeps his hands firmly held on your hips, spitting your squash out at your father until he stopped feeding you and you realized that lunch would be delayed, and refusing to say "mama" more than a few times (which is truly a cardinal sin and I must warn you will be on your record when you meet Jesus and the pope and Bruce Springsteen and Gloria Steinem in heaven someday and they ask what you were doing when you weren't saying "mama.").

Your mama has washed so many of your Christmas outfits (the candy-cane striped sleeper and the red thing covered in gingerbread men, and that 'Pooh's First Christmas' onesie) ad nauseum. While the practical part of me says that we should just keep letting you wear them throughout the post-Christmas months, the anal-retentive part of this woman keeps cringing internally when I think of you wearing the aforementioned festive finery in February (when God and the world know one should be wearing heart-themed apparel, dammit).

I should not be surprised that the first word you've uttered after the ubiquitous "Dada" and fleeting "Mama," is "Caaaaatttttt." I am actually secretly thrilled that you love Cooper and Moses so dearly that they have become your first "official" word. Caaaaaatttt. You are so definitive in the "t" sound. You want so very much to finish the sound. Ahh...sweet melody.

You celebrated your first Christmas last week, and true to prototypical baby form, appreciated the wrappings and boxes and ribbons much more than any of the gifts. Thankfully your parents had compensated for this and gone heavy on the wrappings (extra tissue paper, loads of ribbons), and light on the content. Books were received from Santa. Some sleepers and such. It was mostly your grandparents who surrounded you with the Christmas spirit this year.

Tonight you were fussy. I held you on my lap as I sipped at my (non weight-watcher's approved) glass of chardonay, and caught up on blogs while nuzzling your ear occasionally. You were very sleepy, sleepy enough that I considered lying you down to rest before supper, and then I clicked the link to a blog which mentioned how to entertain children during the holidays. And, lo, it was a you-tube of farting Christmas elves. And as it began to play, you laughed a deep belly laugh. And after the elves passed gas the reindeers commenced the melody and you could barely contain yourself. For over three minutes you remained transfixed. And somewhere in the universe your Great-Grandma Miller laughed and said, "He'll be a Miller by and by just like his great-grandpa." And that reunion you had with your second cousin Jack, the boy who shares a deep connection through his papa with your mama, became all the more tangible (bodily function jokes and all).

I marvel at the wonder that is you. You are growing so fast.

I love you, love you, love you. More than the stars.


1 comment:

Yolanda Elvira said...

more than the stars, that's beautiful.

a friend of mine went through the "i'm not feeding myself" phase with her son.

he would not pick up cheerios or snacks or anything. she would try and put it in his hand and he would follow her hand with his mouth open until she put it in his mouth.

they get over this. i saw it myself.