Recently in Kiddo Category

Dear Kiddo,

Where do I even begin? Next week you turn eleven months old. It's hard to believe that we will soon be celebrating your first birthday, when it seems like we have just barely had you home from the hospital. I haven't kept up with milestones, like a good mother should, but I have random photos on my phone and funny videos here and there that I can work on piecing together someday.

Lately, when I come home, you hear my voice, and start crawling towards me, making very loud almost-crying, but really just give-me-attention noises. When I pick you up, you just relax and start looking around. You're not interested in talking to me, but insist on being held by me. In the nursery at church on Sunday, you relaxed a little bit when you realized I wasn't going anywhere, but would occasionally turn around to make sure I was still there. Sometimes, when I'm sitting on the floor with you, you just crawl over and start crawling all over me, like I'm your jungle-gym. You love to be held, are just fine with being smothered with kisses, and love to know that I'm near.

You've been pulling up and crawling since almost nine months old. You are starting to form sounds, and have lately been saying a lot of "dah-dah-dah" and "neh-neh-neh". Sometimes you say "neh-neh-neh" when we are trying to dress you, and I've actually speculated that your telling us, "no, I don't want to put pants on". In that regard, you are SO boy. All about the playtime and food. Really not so concerned with much else. A couple of weeks ago we were out in the front yard, and across the street a neighbor started a pick-up truck. You got so excited, and a little bit nervous, and I thought it was so funny to see your reaction to a truck at such a young age. On a similar note, you're not sure what you think of the garage door mechanics just yet, but find it very fascinating.

Your face is starting to get rounder, like your dad's. You have darling cheeks, and a "very large brain", as one of your older friends called it the other night. Your expressions are so telling, and constantly make us laugh. When you don't want what we are feeding you, you purse your lips and put your wrists up to your face. When we tell you "no", your lower lip puckers out. You know exactly what getting in trouble entails, and sometimes decide to proceed anyway, even with warning. We've already had several conversations about consequences and making good decisions, and I'm actually convinced that it hasn't been too early for us to chat about those things.

This week, you've been all about a very random lobster rattle. You haul it EVERYWHERE. All across the family room, entry way, and bedroom. I found you dipping it into the toilet this past weekend, and couldn't get it pulled away from you to try to sterilize it. We can't exactly figure out what your fascination with it is, but it is definitely the first thing you go for every morning.

At your nine month check-up, your doctor told us not to give you dairy products, chocolate, peanut butter or strawberries. This has been difficult. It is hysterical watching you eat ice cream, which to date has been by far your favorite food. I'm also not hesitant to let you try a little of almost anything. Last night you had a few bites of mild salsa, last week, some sausage pizza, a little syrup in your oatmeal (that was your dad--and you said "yhmmmmm" after every bite), pieces of ham or chicken. I think you somehow survive almost solely on "Organic Puffs", these little cereal-type, fruit-flavored things that melt to mush in your mouth. I don't think I could exist without Puffs at this point.

Your hair is starting to come in as a very pale strawberry-blonde red head, and your eyes are hinting just a little bit grayer than they used to be. You don't laugh, but when we're entertaining you and you're happy, you emit a sort of "eh-eh" giggle, that is more kin to a machine gun than a belly laugh. You're pretty serious, sort of shy, and, even though I know you're not, very mine. When we found out we were having a boy, EVERYONE (literally--everyone I talked to from one side of the country to the other) told me that "little boys love their mamas", and Kiddo, you do. You and me, we're thick as thieves.

I can't even begin to explain how you do my heart good. I always enjoyed babysitting because it made me stop and enjoy the simple things in life, like coloring with a box of crayons, or digging in a sandbox, and I feel the same way when I'm with you. The computer closes, the phone stays in the next room over, and we just hang. I love walking into the room and have you reach out for me, with those very insistent, pick-me-up-now sounds. I know that all too quickly, you are going to be a giant kid, starting sports, getting a driver's permit, and texting friends. It makes me sad, to realize how fleeting this time is. I know it's impossible for you to understand that, now, and possibly ever--since it really is something only a mother knows how to cherish. But all it means is that I love you more than you could ever know. And that's that.

Love always,
Momma

Dear Kiddo,

You just turned seven months old. Tonight, as I fed you a bottle, and rocked you, you fell asleep in my arms. Your hand remained suspended in mid air, and I had to stare at it for a good five minutes. So tiny, so precious, and getting bigger so fast. I can't believe you are already over half a year old! It seemed like just yesterday that we brought you home from the hospital, sat you in your carrier in the middle of the family room, and stepped back and said, "Now what?"

It's been an adventurous past month. You've started eating real food--fruit is a thumbs up; peas are a thumbs down, as is the "vegetables and beef" medley. I actually tasted the beef concoction. It was the blandest thing I've ever tasted in my life, and I don't blame you for not liking it. Your bottle, on the other hand, you love. You watch us patiently while we make it, and reach out EXCITEDLY to grasp it with both hands after we are finished fixing it. You can almost hold it on your own, but I think you're spoiled, and you know you don't have to.

You love bouncing. You bounce in the monkey, you bounce in the johnny-jump-up, you bounce on our laps, and you bounce in our arms. If the bouncing is any indication of how much chasing we have to do once you start walking, we are going to have our work cut out for us.

You are BUSY, rarely stopping to sit still. You play patiently by yourself in the mornings. We're eternally grateful to Aunt Janky for sending you the "Monkey", aka Planet Jumparoo. We have no idea how we would survive without it. That Monkey is the reason we can squeeze showers in in the mornings.

You'll listen to books, if there is a storyline, or if they rhyme, but you have NO patience for books with no plot. You are increasingly frustrated with the books about words--they seem to be boring and tasteless to you, much like the mixed veggies and beef. You like the books that rhyme, and have a story line. It seems like Goodnight, Moon is your current favorite, and I have it almost memorized. Sometimes I quote it when I'm talking to you, and you stop looking around the room and just stare at me while I whisper "Goodnight, mush, goodnight old lady whispering hush."

You have the bluest eyes we've ever seen. The doctor said to wait until six months to see if the color would change, but if anything, your eyes have gotten more blue, not less. We don't have any idea where you got the blue eyes from--maybe Pop--but we love them. Sometimes I whisper the words to Goodnight, Moon just to get you to look at me.

You've started holding your arms out anytime you want us to pick you up, which is hysterical on one hand, spoiled on the other, but indicates that you know you are well loved, which I don't mind at all. You are a snuggler--when you are tired, or when you just wake up from your naps. While you sleep, you snuggle with the softest blankets that your friends have given you, burying your face in the furriness.

You're almost laughing. Almost. I can't wait to hear that first giggle.

I love you bunches, Kiddo. More than you'll ever know.

Love always,
Momma

Dear Kiddo,

You'll have to start learning to forgive me early in life, I suppose. I've started several drafts of these letters to you, but haven't finished them, for one reason or another. The excuses have been plentiful; time has not. I started with the best of intentions, but haven't written you a three month, four month, or five month letter.

Sometime during your month three, I walked in late from work. Things had been hectic, as they always are at that time of year. It was quiet in the house, without a daddy, dog or baby in sight, so I tiptoed upstairs and saw this:

You and your daddy were both sound asleep. He had been helping me at work. We were exhausted. You weren't sleeping through the night yet.

Christmas hit, and a snowstorm. Kiddo, actually, it was a blizzard. Your Uncle Toothpick and cousin Bames barely made it to our house. We all holed up together, laughing and playing Uno Attack until three in the morning. There is video footage of that night--we'll let you see it when you are older. Your Uncle Toothpick brought you a giant Curious George. You just sat there, looking at that monkey, wondering why he was bigger than you were.

Your Nana and Poppa didn't make it to town that night, and so the next day, Christmas Day, we headed to your Mimi's house. You spent Christmas morning with your cousins, and your Mimi. You weren't sure what to make of the chaos, and didn't want to nap that afternoon. We finally rocked you to sleep and you agreed to crash at Mimi's house, sleeping in the crib in the guest room. Meanwhile, Daddy and I had dug out our snow gear and went sledding like two kids on the hills at Mimi and Carpa's house.

We officially celebrated Christmas on the 26th in 2009. It was a Saturday, which made the Christmas holiday seem like a four day weekend. We put off having the feast until after your Nana and Poppa finally made it to town. There is also some video footage of that as well, complete with a full critique of the menu by your Aunt Dianna.

Later that night, we gathered around for some family photos. Notice the contrast of your glamorous Aunt B, versus your rather granola-y-looking-but-not-really-Momma:

Aunt B:

Your cousin, Pardner, held you patiently while we took photos, none of which turned out to be halfway decent. Cruiser sat by, rather disenchanted with the whole picture taking process. They were extremely tired cousins, on their best behavior.

It snowed again in January. There was a Thursday when we left work, knowing that a storm would hit, and we would not be in on Friday. I was relishing the thought of staying home with you. Your daddy was out of town--I don't remember why or where. We woke up that Friday morning to at least six inches of thick snow on the ground. I opened the curtains (after you woke me up) and we worked together that day. I laid blankets on the ground in the floor of my room, and took these photos of you.

We've had a couple of days like that, you and I. They are long and slow days. Your sitter isn't here, and the world is quiet. Sundays are like that when your daddy is out of town. The phone doesn't ring, we don't turn the television on...it's just you and me. I already regret that I have not savored more moments with you, that I have not turned the computer off more often, that I have not been here for your every waking moment.

I'm so glad I pulled the camera out on that snowy day. We took pictures for all of ten minutes, but I'll always remember those moments, frozen in time, with you watching me, watching Francie, watching the thick flakes fall outside. The world isn't always such a beautiful place, you will someday learn. Wars, greed, corruption and pain can encompass you if you let it.

Kiddo, I'm learning that you don't have to let those things encompass you. You don't have to identify with that pain, you don't have to become a part of the pain. You can become a part of the healing. And those quiet days--that snowy day--have been healing for me, in so many ways as well.

This morning, I talked to your Aunt B. We talked about how we can let the past define who we are, or we can let our choices define who we become.

Yesterday, one of those quiet Sundays, I turned off the computer at noon. You were fussy, were having none of your Bouncy Monkey, or your bottle, or your crib, or a schedule. So, we laid on the floor together, and talked to an octopus, and a hungry caterpillar, and a rather annoying vibrating and musical elephant. Francie curled up in a ball on her bed on the other side of the room, and you rolled over. And over. And over. On your back, you smiled up at me. On your stomach, you looked around, up, and wiggled on your legs, pushing to see if they would take you somewhere.

All too soon, Kiddo, you will be gone. Those legs will take you so many places in life. Never forget that the choices you make about where you go, what you do, who you associate with, will affect you for the rest of your life. Don't let yourself become mired down in the past, or in negative people. Always move up and onward.

So far, you're doing an incredible job of it.

Love always,
Momma

I haven't written my Kiddo letter for the four months mark. At this point in time, I'll probably just save it for five months, since that will be here in a couple of weeks. I need to download pics off my camera, too. His growing seems to have slowed down a tad in the past weeks--he's not longer flying through the sizes of clothing.

We have been SO BUSY. We finished out December at work on a combination of harsh and joyous notes: the good news is, our error rate was .005%. I don't want to get into what the bad news was, but long story short, I determined I was tired of hearing bad news.

So, one morning, I shot off an email to a business acquaintance. Looking back, it was one of those emails that set off a string of dominoes, because my head hasn't stopped spinning since I pressed send. Moments later, my phone rang, and that conversation sent me into a tizzy finding paperwork. I sent the paperwork, and was put through a grueling interview, in which I had to sell my vision for what we could become. They bought it. And then, before the end of the year, they delivered a snazzy, brand-new HP Indigo 3500.

In the story that will be my life, I think I will look back and say we were at a sink or swim point. Sinking, for me, is never an option. Swimming, while a lot of hard work, at least means we are moving forward. I HATE not moving forward. I hate stagnant feelings, and I hate not learning, and I hate it when we're not making progress.

The emotions that have accompanied this decision equivalent to those that I had after first starting the business. I'm crunching numbers again, thanks to one incredible bookkeeper, who without, this would not have been possible. I'm exhausted--crashing as soon as my head hits the pillow--and I'm not pregnant, this time. I really just jumped off the deep end, but I know how to swim. The waters of potential lured me in.

Kiddo is adorable, happy, and believe it or not, the reason we are doing all this. He's also crying right now, so I'm signing off.

xoxo,
Toots

Dear Kiddo,

I've been working so much lately; I've missed you. Tonight, I didn't get home until almost 8:00. You had a rough night, crying, and then your daddy decided it would be fun to wind you up. It was so hard for you to fall asleep, so I fed you again, swaddled you up, and held you.

We rocked. You weren't one bit sleepy, despite the fact that it was 11 o'clock. You looked up at me. And smiled. I'm sure I wasn't supposed to smile back; I was probably supposed to do something that reminded you that it was bedtime. But I distracted you further, and smiled back.

You cooed at me. I can't tell you how sweet those sounds are. I could have listened to you talk all night. But it WAS bedtime, so I held you close. You stuck your nose in the crook of my elbow, and fought back against me, so I held you tighter.

Little by little, you relaxed, cozying up to me even more.

I want to remember these moments forever.

Kiddo rolled over yesterday. It kind of took me by surprise, and gravity was there to help (I had him propped up on a pillow), but nevertheless, he rolled. A few small pushes and he was on his back. He'll be 15 weeks old this coming Wednesday, so it's a little bit early for him to be rolling over all by himself, but it's a milestone worth documenting, nevertheless.

It's been hard for me to take pictures this month. We've been so busy at work. Even though the overtime hasn't been there this year, the workdays have still been intense. I've been waking up at 6:00 to take care of kiddo, and sometimes I can squeeze a nap in from 7-9 before our sitter gets here, but other days it just doesn't happen. We are going to bed at night at 10:00, right after kiddo eats one last time. It's funny, though--a 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. sleeping schedule just doesn't put me at my best. I'll get used to it, I know, and maybe this current fatigue is part of that adjustment.

There is so much going on at work. I took one huge breath last Friday and signed the docs for a printing press. It's a huge commitment to make, but I'm determined to figure out how to grow the biz. On one hand, I will be very proud to own it. I know other companies don't have their own equipment, and I would think that we have comparable sales (although we've always been fortunate enough to operate with very little or no debt). On the other hand, there is a strong sense of stewardship that came along with signing those docs, and a reminder to use my time, money, mind, and other resources wisely.

We are thinking about going to a Dave Ramsey convention next year. I think it would be phenomenally interesting, if not life-changing.

I have a lot of design work to finish up this afternoon. And our Christmas tree, despite the fact that it has been up before Thanksgiving, still needs to be decorated.

And now I'm going to go get ready for church.

I've always said I'm a questionable candidate for motherhood. I never wanted a child, at least not in the way some people desperately do. I never not wanted children either, though. When I was single, I was going to live in the single moment, realizing marriage needed to be conquered before children. After I was married, I refused to let myself fall in love with the notion of parenting, just in case we were never able to conceive, carry, or adopt.

So when people asked if I wanted kids, I always replied with the reminder that I was a questionable candidate for motherhood.

When I found myself rather unexpectedly pregnant, I was hesitant. In all honesty, I was more concerned about the pregnancy than I was the parenting. I went through the entire nine months worrying about every kick, still spell, the whole labor and delivery process, and never once thought about what I would do with Kiddo once he arrived. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I think I thought it would still be possible to resume life as I had once lived it--out with Hubs on Saturday nights, over at friends houses until two in the morning, and quick jaunts down to Dallas whenever we wanted. I wondered what Kiddo looked like, but aside from that, I didn't think about anything beyond just making sure he arrived safely.

When Kiddo arrived, all that changed in an instant. I'm not exaggerating. Immediately, I wanted to hold him, and I've never particularly liked holding babies. I wanted to feed him, and I've always thought nursing was gross. Now that he's two months old, I know instinctively how to make him stop crying, how to get him to go to sleep, and how to make him smile. When I was pregnant, it didn't dawn on me that we would be up on hours on end for sleepless nights, that he would have a small share of health issues (turns out all children do), or that I'd be totally paranoid about people holding him, and obsessive compulsive about hand sanitizer.

I'm still not the best candidate for Mother of the Year, and I know I will make lots of mistakes in the long run. But my perspective on mothering has changed drastically. I'm more touched by the stories of other mothers than I have ever been. Recently, I've read two blog posts, both of which have moved me to tears. Click on over and read these: at Kelly's Korner, she discusses her recent trip to El Salvador, from a mother's perspective. I honestly cannot imagine what these mothers go through. And on Rebecca's blog, she talks about her little Eli's birth mother, and what an agonizing decision she made to give Eli up. Both of these gals inspire me because of their sensitivity to those in need.

In addition, both stories are reminders of how much I've been blessed with, as well as how much responsibility I've been given. People ask if we want more kids, and my answer is the same as it was before--I don't know. I'm not going to be the greatest mother; I will make mistakes. I don't have undivided attention for one, let alone more. But if someone called me tomorrow and said, "I know a child who needs a family," I would be hard pressed to tell them no.

What I do know is that it is important that Kiddo knows and understands the plights of other children, and that we need to do everything we can to reach out to help those in our community and around the world. And in the meantime, I'm grateful that I have a better understanding of what those kiddos and their mothers are going through.