Dear Kyle,
I carried you for nine months, give or take, and now you've been alive in this world for nine months, too. Holy shit. Sorry, son, but your mom says shit sometimes, and I'm sure this isn't brand-new information to you as you've probably heard me say shit a number of times (many directed at reality television programs, no doubt). I also say shit a lot when the circumstances are mind-boggling, such as when you are nine months old.
You'll hear often in life that time flies and for a long, long time that saying will mean little more to you than a silly thing boring, old adults say to fun, young kids. You probably think, well, yeah time flies WHEN YOU GO TO BED AT 7 O'CLOCK EACH NIGHT. But, I want you to remember something, and I want you to remember it well. Keep it close to you forever and ever and then some: HOLY SHIT, TIME REALLY DOES FLY.
I have one of the best memories of anyone I've ever met, and your dad will completely agree with me on this because my memory has been the cause of 9 kajillion fights we've had over the years. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T REMEMBER THAT WE WENT TO THAT WALGREENS FIVE YEARS AGO AND BOUGHT BUBBLE BATH?" "Uh, because no one but you would remember that." My memory is eerily good, it is, and I remember so vividly during your first week of life as I sat, unshowered, on the couch talking on the phone to a coworker who told me her sister-in-law's favorite baby age is nine months. I cried as soon as I hung up the phone. Nine months? I had to wait until NINE MONTHS to get to the good stuff?
We're here now. You're nine months old.
Holy shit, time flies.
(And we've been rolling around in the good stuff for ages, sweet boy. If it gets better than it's been, we're about to get spoiled rotten.)
You're doing so much right now, I don't even know where to start. You are pulling up to standing and weeble-wobble walking with our help. When I walk by your room, and you're awake, you stand up, peer over the edge and smile like, "Hello! I'm here! Let's get this day STARTED already!" We're teaching you to wave, and sometimes you get it, sometimes you don't. When you do get it, you look like you're having some type of fit because you don't actually wave as much as you jerk your arm around in the air. You high-five, too! And whenever we put our hands in the air and say, "high-five buddy!" you break into the biggest grin and slap our hands. We high-five over everything, and it never gets old. After months of saying, "da da da daaaaa dadadada" you finally made the "mama" sound this month, but not in a loving way when I walk through the door or when you just need something only your mama can give you, but only when you are MELTING DOWN (usually on the changing table). You sob, with real, fat tears rolling down your face and say, "Mamamamamama. Maaaaaaama." As if, "HOW COULD YOU BE DOING THIS TO ME, MAMA? HOW COULD YOU HATE ME SO MUCH AS TO CHANGE MY DIRTY PANTS."
Sometimes mama drinks straight from the bottle in addition to saying shit.
When you're in your highchair, and we walk out of view, you twist your entire body around to get a look at us. You still fall instantly asleep in the car, and sometimes your dad picks you up from school, and you haven't slept but 15 minutes the entire day, but as soon as that ignition starts, you're out. If gas were free, Kyle, we'd never leave the car. We'd live there, just driving all around to give you proper naps. You've started snuggling a lot this month, and the other night we brought you into bed with us and watched a show, all three of us together, and you were resting on my pillow and had your arm draped across your dad, and, well, that was a pretty ridiculously awesome moment.
This was also a tough month because you got really sick for the longest period of time yet (specifically: too damn long), and you were not your usual, happy self. You were also teething while you were sick and somehow your easy-going, fun-loving, awesome little baby personality morphed into ... uh ... well ... how do I say this? Fine, an asshole. I'm sorry, Kyle, but it's true. You were in pain! You were sick! I would have been an asshole too! I'm an asshole even when I'm not in pain and sick! But, you screamed ALL DAY LONG for an entire week, and, well, the entire house was just a miserable place to be. There was much sighing and collapsing in exhaustion and praying to ANYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN.
On Tuesday, I walked in from work and you were with your dad, and you LIT UP when you saw me and did that squawky, high-pitched, excited thing you do whenever you see your favorite people or your bottles. I lifted you up and said, "Ah, buds, we're glad to have you back."
Something I've really struggled with this month is not letting anyone else's thoughts about our family affect me, even people we care about. I heard something recently that someone who is supposed to love us said about me, about my mothering, and it wasn't nice. I cried and was down and couldn't have felt crappier if I had tried. Then I remembered something, and it's something I want you to remember too: no matter what you do -- and you could save baby seals all day and night for the rest of your life -- someone is going to think you're doing it wrong, that you didn't save that one seal quite right, even someone who's supposed to love you unconditionally. Focusing on what THEY think will never, ever work. Because there will always be someone who thinks you suck. Always. No matter if you shower them with candy and compliments. They'll think, "SNICKERS? I WANTED KIT-KATS!" No one lives in our home with us. No one knows what songs we sing or what dances we dance or what games we play or what our bedtime routine is like or how you splish-splash in the bath and get all wide-eyed and happy when you hear the water turn on. No one knows you are only ticklish on one side of your stomach or that if I put my hand in front of your face, you instantly stop fussing as if it's the most fascinating thing you've ever seen. They don't know that you like banana puffs more than apple puffs and that you have this little, teeny birthmark on your left leg.
People get to have their opinions, that's just their right. And we get to go on living our beautiful little lives as we choose.
They may judge, Kyle, but we'll have the last laugh. We're going to laugh forever.
Nine beautiful, crazy, incredible, intense, amazing, messy, perfect months. Holy shit.
Love,
Your Mama
