It Sucks.

Week Twelve/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my child(ren) once a week every week in 2014"

 



You guys. This is not right. This can’t be happening. My baby, my little ten month old chunk of chub is taking steps. He. Is. Taking. Steps. And I’m not nearly ready to have a walker. He is my baby. My serenity, the peace maker and happiness bringer, and glue that currently most strongly binds the family (save for at nap and bedtime of course).

 

He is still tiny enough where I willingly smell him, burying my nose into the sticky crevices of his neck rolls. I still carry him around and snuggle him and think his farts are adorable and blow raspberries on his belly and the bottoms of his tiny, sweaty, stinky feet. He still seeks my fingers when he nurses. He still sticks his fingers in my mouth. He tries to feed whoever is sitting next to him at the dinner table. He giggles. He gurgles. He drools. He is my baby. And he is taking steps.

I didn’t believe it at first. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen a step here and there over the past couple of days, but really, a step, or half a step, hardly qualifies. And I was in denial. Then on Saturday my husband insisted he counted four. Four steps. And the kids are watching him like a hawk. Stalking him with the camera. Screaming when he even so much as leans in to move in the upright position. This of course startles the crap out of him and he falls, which I secretly love.

But last night, March 29^th it happened. I saw it with my own tired and teary eyes. Three steps. My little guy. The one who needs me most right now; the one who needs me for virtually everything still, is rapidly becoming a walker. And I hate it. I don’t know why…but I do.

(He has been practicing by pushing this toy & anything that isn't bolted to the floor all over the house...including any one of his siblings)

 

I really don’t want to concede that he’s my last baby, especially here…because my husband reads and watches and jumps on ANY chance to remind me that I SAID that our current baby is our last baby. I’m beginning to think that he pays attention to the posts where I claim we’re done, and flat out ignores the posts where I proclaim that there’s room for just one more.

But I digress. I’m late in including this post, these pictures, in The 52 Project, as they’re onto next week already. But I had to take a minute to write down how I feel about this new found skill…and really it’s quite simple. It sucks. I feel like it sucks. It sucks because of everything walking symbolizes, and it sucks because I’m going to seriously miss the way this little bugger crawls.  I’ve got to get the crawl on video before he abandons it all together. And I’ve tried to snap some pictures of it here and there, but I always fail in capturing the true essence of his plump bum in the air, legs wide and angular, whizzing around on his toes like a little sand crab.

And to my sweet, patient, quiet and strong husband. This is your fair warning. It’s only going to get worse for you from here. With each big boy thing the baby boy accomplishes…I’m ramping up the ‘nother baby nag. Except on those days when I want to rip out my fingernails, set my eyebrows on fire, eat toenails or…even take some glow stick goo to the eye (read about that fun here). On those days I’ll be perfectly content with four. For now, I suggest you start helping me push the baby down whenever he tries to take a step.

 

(For now, we savor the moments he's not taking steps!)

 

(Do you know how hard it is to photograph a crawling, or newly walking baby)

 

(Love how he's on all fours here!)
 

And here's the video proof. Though I refuse to watch it. Cause what I don't see isn't real!

 

 

Man-ish

While I realize my little guy still has a vast amount of “growing up” to do (don’t they all really?), I’ve noticed recently that there are a few things that indicate he’s well on his way to becoming a man. For better or worse.

Don’t get me wrong; I love men. I married a good natured one who thankfully doesn’t mind the occasional blog post portraying him in slightly unfavorable light. Also, I’m tasked with raising two. And while I feel ultimately I’ll do a pretty good job, transforming my baby boys into men is also a undertaking that scares me to death. Cause God forbid either of them end up with a wife like me.

At the ripe old age of nine months my little baby boy-cub is becoming more man-ish. For instance:

1.   We don't nurse snuggled up and cozy belly to belly anymore. No. Now he sprawls out like a man on the couch. Feet up, arms askew, slugging a beer...straight from the tap.

2.   He whines. Of course all babies do. My girls did too. Still do in fact. But this little dude turns on the whiny voice. Just for effect and a little bit of attention. I hope he figures out that whiny men are never endearing to women. Neither are men that fake cough, drool excessively, or crap their pants. But for now, we’ll focus on the whine.

 

3.   He flips me off. A lot.

 

      

4.   His feet stink. Holy hell baby boy. I shudder thinking about future sneakers and gym socks and boy specific sports equipment.

 

5.   He tries to make himself fart (and is alarmingly successful). And he laughs when he succeeds. Actually he laughs even if he doesn’t fart on demand…cause farts are just funny. For a while now he’s been trying to make himself poop when he nurses, but he’s definitely upped his game with the flatulence.

6.   He sweats. Ick. And there goes the sweet smell of a newborn baby. Right. Out. The Window.

7.   He has attitude. And according to his pediatrician, he is a sleep manipulator. Apparently because I will do anything to get and keep my little to sleep, said little is a manipulator. Perhaps this is why I am the Mom, and not the pediatrician.

 

8.   He has a favorite chair, and likes to push it from room to room with him.

 

      9.  He is a terrible driver. It is inevitable I suppose.  Zero hands on the wheel. Looking around. Talking to himself. Drooling. Utterly unable to parallel park. Or get from Point A to Point B without me reminding him how to get there.

 

 (Can we pause for a sec and admire the chub!)

  

    10. He has no idea what to do with the laundry.

    11.  I don't even want to tell you what his favorite tub toy is...(hint: he's looking for it!)