Monday, May 30, 2011

Nine Months

Dear Abe,

My boy, you are 9 months old. You are incredibly curious and extremely short-tempered. There is nothing you love better than experiencing something new. You enjoy meeting new people, new babies, new animals. Everything new is good. Everything old, ordinary, and routine is BAD. Certain days I need to work from home or get some cleaning done typically leave you a heap of screaming baby on the floor, desperately trying to convince me in your baby language that you are bored and need to get out and DO!

Speaking of floor, you can crawl; sort of. You pull up to your knees, rock back and forth as if you're revving your engine, and then you flatten out like a pancake and inchworm to wherever it is you wish to be. It's a slow, painful process to watch. But it gets you places, typically near a dog or electrical cord. You like to explore items around the house that require you to figure out "how they work". You love gates, doors, cabinets, etc. You don't really care about what's on the other side. You just care about the opening and the closing.

Your recent growth spurt left you so much more aware. There are mornings during which I put you down for a nap, you fall nearly asleep, and then pop up remembering there's a whole world out there to explore. You rarely cry in your crib, though, opting instead to talk or squawk while exploring from one end to the other. You also discovered you could bang your pacifier against the side of the crib to make a loud noise. It did get me to come upstairs a few times, but I've caught on now. Bang away, Abe. I'm not coming in.

While I don't care what you choose to be when you grow up, I can tell you that at nine months old you are SUCH a boy. You found your little friend's tea set and decided to bang the cups as hard as you could against the saucers. When a toy is nearby, you pick it up and throw it around as if to say, "I'm picking you up, I'm throwing you, I'm getting you. I'm picking you up, I'm throwing you, I'm getting you." When you need more food on your tray you slam your hand down over and over again. You explore every new person, place, and thing by hitting. And heaven forbid you get near a magazine or other paper-made periodical...

Your smile is still like gold, and your laugh like platinum. You're careful to save both for special occasions. You squeal with delight when you see your Daddy or me. You refuse to let me feed you. You MUST feed yourself. And you love pretty much anything edible, and some things that aren't.

This week I watched cousins and past students post their "Class of 2011" updates all over Facebook. It occurred to me that someday you are going to graduate. Hard to believe I could be more proud of you than I am today. You are amazing and strong and so full of personality. I love spending my days with you. And I love you. Every inch.


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