Month 11

Dear Grayson,

It's been quite a month. It went incredibly quickly.

The most formative event of the month may have been your ability to stand while holding on to various pieces of furniture. You stand carefully, always gripping the object of stability with both hands. And then cry when you're tired, but don't want to fall down, as you haven't figured out yet how to gently drop or sit. God love you, you're becoming the obsessively neurotic child I always knew you'd become (having been raised by the queen of obsessively neurotic behaviors). It's okay, Grammy and Grandpa report that I was also "cautious" and have turned out not so bad. Except for the excessive desire to document words looked up in dictionaries, which actually gains merit in the "English Major Awards."

We do, though, need to talk about your lack of ambition in certain areas. Mostly when it comes to eating. You excel in loving each and every food we offer. You have given up your squash and sweet pea aversion and seem content to munch on Del Monte turkey and green beans, or Beech prunes. Last night I fed you bits of bacon, followed by pieces of kidney bean, a few fingerful's of wild rice and topped it off with a nice apple-cherry medley courtesy of Gerber. You didn't blink an eye. The foods, you embrace. The ways of eating the foods, you fall a little short. Not a lot short, just a little. I don't want to be an overly critical parent here, but, well, I'm just looking forward to the day that you express interest in being a little more independent here.

I realize that most young men attending Harvard don't have their parents there spooning foods or placing cheerios in their mouths. I know this, intellectually, and yet I worry. Because, as bright as I know you must be, as certain as I am of your future with a Masters in Divinity degree from Harvard Divinity School (your father's alma mater and your mother's degree would be nice, wouldn't it?). You have no inclination to do much on your own. For example...you don't crawl (although you roll in some amazing ways and end up jettisoned on pillows and trapped under harmless coffeetables), you don't place food in your own mouth (although food placed on your bottom lip and tongue is greatly appreciated and immediately devoured). Again, we would never want to attach the word "lazy" to your life, but, well, let's be honest...there is one parent whose baby book specifically uses that word (not that I've mentioned that in previous posts or anything).

Your father is convinced that this lack of desire in feeding and propelling oneself is perfect indication of your inherent intelligence. He believes that you have already learned that there are few years to bask in the limelight, to allow others to carry you everywhere you want to go, to have Mommy and Daddy available to spoon food into your mouth or hold a bottle to your lips, and that you are simply taking advantage of those moments, as they will never come again.

And, he may be right. After all, you've already learned how to push yourself in the swing when you want to go faster. You know the times to use the system and the times to get your own needs met. My little pistol, who has already learned that those who can work can figure out loopholes to allow others to work for them. Almost makes me wish we were Republicans so we could celebrate. Instead, we'll continue to teach you the word "Marxism," and dress you in "My Momma's for Obama" onesies.

Time is going so very fast. I think of where we were a year ago...you safely ensconced in my womb. Me growing big and grumpy. The days we spent in the hospital in the end of March 2007 were probably the sweetest of my life so far. I marvel at how far we've come in this year. And can't wait to celebrate the birthday of my big boy next month.

I love you, boy-boy. I love you more than you could imagine.

Mama