Monday, February 04, 2008
I am a few days behind in posting. Mama's been a busy girl. This weekend I had every intention of writing and then realized I was way behind on working on the first lecture for my Feminist and Womanist Theologies class and so spent four hours at the downtown library while you and Dada hung out at home watching football or some such nonsense. I exaggerate? Well, yes, okay, maybe instead you and Dada watched an edition of Religion and Ethics Newsweekly on PBS.
Tonight, after so many hours working, working...sending you to church with Dada so I could work while you were gone, I had to cancel the class due to some nasty fog in the area. And with a free night, and lecture prepared for next week (which I was really, really passionate about, actually), Mama finds an opening to write you this little love note while you bounce wildly in your Jumperoo next to me whilst listening to the Big Band and Swing channel on cable.
You are growing like a weed...like those out of control nettles which Mama pulls every eight seconds in her garden. But, unlike the nettles your soft and cuddly and don't make Mama's fingers itch. Last night we went to an Un-Superbowl Party and a friend of a friend who is an MD said, "And he's how old?" I mentioned that you were average for height and weight but that, um, yes, your head was a bit large. It is after all in the 95th percentile, so why not boast? "That's what we go by," he said. "He's a big boy. He's got a big head." Someone overheard the conversation and said, "Probably because he has so much to think about." With that I will concur. Your native American name will not be "Bald-Headed-Boy-with-Big-Head" but will instead be, "He-Who-Thinks-Much."
You're venturing into new worlds as you explore the wild world of culinary delights. You're a fan of the purplish-blue variety of fruits now. Your grandpa is still mourning the fact they don't make Blueberry Buckle dessert to feed to babies and has had to suffice with given you the reduced sugar Apple-Blueberry dessert. Thankfully, for both of you, it's been a hit.
We do need to mention the Cheerios though, Mister. Apparently you didn't get the Memo that all kids love Cheerios, for you, you have no interest. I bought the Honey Nut variety (and then panicked after feeding you one and had to call the pediatrician to make sure I hadn't just lethally dosed you since babies aren't allowed to have honey...[note to all hypochondriacal mothers: Honey Nut Cheerios are Fine]), the Apple Cinnamon Variety, but you care not at all. For the Cheerios you have no love. Actually, for feeding yourself at all there is no love. However, if someone were to feed you off their finger some orange sesame flavored rice that would be superb. It isn't the taste as much for you as it seems to be the mode of transport.
This morning you delighted me beyond words. In the car on the way to our beloved Shannon's house you chirped and squawked and talked. I was interested in this and when I got you out of the car I said, "Grayson, what does the Mama Duck say?" Since we repeat the Mama Duck litany in the bathtub nightly (the counting game where we repeat about the "Five little ducks who went out one day, over the hills and far away..."), I wondered if it might have "stuck."
"What does the Mama Duck say?" I asked you of the wide-eyed stare, once again. You paused, searched your brain and then said quietly, "Quack, quack, quack." I was dumbfounded. To be certain, I waited until we got into Shannon's and asked again, "And what's the Mama Duck say, boy?" "Quack, quack, quack" you said, more tentatively this time. I almost scooped you up and devoured you whole.
I love you, little duck. I love you, I love you, I love you.
And this separation anxiety stuff? Stop your panicky looks. Mama always comes back.
But, Grayson, promise me in days to come when you're out wandering the world that anytime Mama Duck calls to her baby, "Quack, Quack, Quack!" that you'll somehow find your way back. I have a hunch your migration is going to come much sooner than this duck would like.