Dear Grayson,
We will, perhaps, remember this month as the month you learned to point. Pointing is in fashion here at Chez P-M, sort of the "new black" if you will. You point at everything. Lights. Cats. Windows. Air fresheners plugged into outlets. Dog. Bit of toilet paper on the floor. Residual lint left from vacuum cleaner. Dead spider. Dust mite. Who knows, really? You point and we name whatever seems to be in line with your pointer finger.
You still don't speak coherent words much of them time, but you do converse a great deal. You yammer and jabber and we all agree with you and second whatever motion you've put on the table. However, for as much as I'm not sure you're taking in, there are many more details that are connecting in your tiny brain. Today we were out for a walk in a different neighborhood where we normally wander. We turned an unfamiliar corner and you stared quacking like a duck. I corrected you, as there was no water and no pond or lake nearby, saying, "Graysie, I don't see a duck. We'll see ducks another day." You proceeded with your quacking, and lo an behold, there was one of those cheesy yard-art white ducks sitting on a porch dressed in country-western apparel. You are either the most perceptive child, or the most keen to white-trash yard-art. I'm not sure which would make me prouder.
Saturday we spent the day with your Grandpa and Great-Grandpa in the front yard of our cottage on Chapman Lake. Your Grandpa and I weren't sure it was a warm enough day for a dip in the water, but the sun shone and the gentle waves beckoned and we dipped your toes only to find that you'd prefer a full-body immersion. Grandpa and I took turns reinstilling your proper Miller Baptism in the water while your Great-Grandpa sat in his wheelchair mere feet away offering you his blessing saying to me, "He'll do just fine, Chris."
You have been given a legacy, my boy. You have great-grandparents who wanted you to grow to love the lake, to learn to catch blue gills which you might eat pan-fried in butter, and to capture tiny painted turtles to keep as pets for a few hours and then release into the channel. Your great-grandparents left this cottage, for as long as we can keep it in the family, so that you might know what it means to both rest and work, both labor and play. And your great-grandmother would have been so very proud of you, which your great-grandfather reminded me of again on Saturday. You are blessed, my sweet boy. I hope lake water runs through your blood for the rest of your life.
I just put you down to sleep, clinging to your cloth diaper. As many times as I try to thrust a sweet stuffed bear, or a soft downy lamb into your sleep-hungry arms, you continue to push the object d' amour away, content with the simple pleasure of a cloth diaper stained with milk spit-up and smelling of laundry detergent, the baby equivalent of Honda rather than Cadillac I suppose.
I'm so awed that I get to spend my life being your mama.
And, I love you.
Mama
My boy, boy...
Mama's been delayed in her posting. Delayed with crazy work productivity schedules and the planning of management encouraged "mandatory" retreats. Delayed because Mama is quite near exhausted and grumpy as hell. Delayed because when Mama gets home mostly she wants to crawl around on all fours chasing you in a wild game of "I'm Gonna Get You" or curl up watching your daddy give you your evening bottle in a place where she can watch the faces of both her two boys.
You're not walking much yet, although I've come to believe that it's not the strength or muscle coordination as much as it is that you're a cautious guy, afraid that a fall will mean failure. You're so very careful, sometimes standing propped against the couch or your daddy's leather chair waiting for someone to help you sit down again, whining if we don't pay attention and rescue you. Lately you've started making a triangle of your tiny body with your feet on the floor and your hands a foot or so in front of them, your own interpretive dance statement, certainly, representing the tepee and in honor of the Native Americans whose land we Hoosiers invaded. You're like that, the underdog. Or perhaps you're just practicing "Downward Dog" in yoga.
You laugh crazily at the cats, your bunny book, the rooster at the farm near your baby-sitter's home, baths, and when tickle monsters come to town. You eat most everything and when introduced to coconut cream pie signed the word "More" throughout the whole experience, just in case I wasn't spooning the creamy goodness into your mouth fast enough.
You continue to enjoy yourself by busting into the recycled diaper wipes container and pulling out a plethora of baby food lids, which you then scatter haphazardly throughout the living room only to be stepped on by unsuspecting parents in the middle of the night, or to be shoved down the back of your onesie and discovered while your parents are cleaning up a poppy diaper only to find the imprint of a Gerber's chicken noodle dinner lid on your bum. You don't need much to keep you happy.
Your spiritual life develops at a rapid fire pace as you press again and again and again and again the buttons of the Precious Moments hymn audio book which somehow surfaced in our home, perhaps a remnant from some crazy fundamentalist relative who wanted to bring you to Jesus after your heathen parents have failed you. Either that or George Bush had Homeland Security send it anonymously to the homes of democratic voters in an effort to raise God-fearing children.
Occasionally the book gets "hidden" under a chair or in the bottom of your toy-basket, but the heavenly angels seem to find it again and allow you to entertain us with your index finger as the Precious Moments figurine type people with scary, big, haunted eyes serenade us once again.
You and Daddy have been luxuriating in father-son bonding this summer while Daddy watches you throughout the days when he's home for the summer. So far you've spent your manly summer fishing for blue gill and trout in the pond near our house in your father's bass boat, taken an infant kick-boxing father-son course, purchased matching camouflaged onesie/speedo sets and learned to spit. It's been quite a summer.
In reality, your adoration for your "Dada" only grows. You cling to him like ivy on a tree and say his name with almost poetic reverence, which seems only appropriate as Father's Day approaches.
Know how much you're loved, my sweet. Loved beyond your mama's poor feeble words. Loved beyond reason.
Mama
This morning, a leisurely Saturday morning I woke early. I lay quietly next to my sleeping husband, a cat curled around my feet. I listened to the cooing of morning doves. I reveled in the quiet of the house. I reached my arms up over my head for a nice slow stretch and, YOW!
Shooting pain down my right arm. Shooting pain down my back. Shooting pain through my shoulder. Shooting pain in my neck.
Mother f*@#$ er (or "Mother Trucker" as I'm learning to say as I realize soon the truth of the little pitchers saying). Pinched nerve. Gosh Darn Mother Truck it to Bell.
Poor R. has had an absentee wife today thanks to the outpatient clinic's beloved Dr. Skinny-Man's magic muscle relaxants.
Bloggage coming when I can sit comfortably at the computer for a little while.
