The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends starting your baby on chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream at 8 months.
Oh wait, they don't?
Well, they should. It is awesome.
Summer is here, and so are evening walks to the confectionery. Did we really buy a house that's 200 yards away from an ice cream store? pure genius.
Did I really think that I'd be able to carry the grabbiest human alive in my Moby wrap without sharing at least half of this ice cream cone? pure folly.
Today is father's day & we're celebrating your dad (and by "celebrating," i mean that he is outside mowing the lawn in the sweltering heat, while I'm drinking coffee and you are chewing on everything in the house).
I'm sure you will come to know all about your dad, over time, but--just in case it's not obvious-- I want you to know what kind of dad you have. You've got one of the good ones.
Let's start with what he's not. He's not one of those "strong and silent" reclusive types. He's never going to play mind games with you. He's never going to withhold his affection, or make you think that you aren't good enough. He can't be any of these things because he's crazy about you, and couldn't be prouder to call you his son. And it shows, every day. In the little things. And the big things.
He was the first person to hold you when you made your grand entrance into the world more than 8 months ago.
He cuts your fingernails and toenails {and was angst ridden for a week the first time he nipped a little corner of your finger in the process}.
He stays home with you on Mondays & Fridays.
He's the expert at coaxing your chubby arms through sleeves.
He can make a bottle of formula one handed while juggling a 30 pound pinching, biting gorilla {that's you} in the other.
He's very protective of you. He looked at me in horror the first time {under my supervision} you tipped over backwards and bumped your head. Nevermind that you "fell" from a distance of about 5 inches, and you were sitting on the carpet. If he had it his way, you'd be wrapped in protective foam for the next 18 years {minimum}.
He's proud of himself when he makes a basket in your "basketball" hoop; nevermind that it's a game calibrated for 12 month olds.
He loves lists. He makes lists for everything. He's even got a list indexing his lists. Before you were born, he had a list of things he wanted to do with you.
Last summer, while we were waiting for you to arrive, he spent countless hours in the backyard ripping each weed out by hand because he didn't want to use any chemical pesticides on your future playground.
He's got an uncanny ability to impersonate Mickey Mouse {hot dog!}, which you love {and in a few years, if you still love Mickey, he will take you to the 9th circle of hell--also known as Disney World-- just because it makes you happy}.
After you swiftly chomped a teething biscuit into two mighty choke-able pieces a few weeks ago, I put the box of biscuits in the pantry, writing them off as a total waste. When, on whim, I pulled the box back out weeks later to give the biscuits a "second chance," I discovered that your father had eaten all but two of them. I think this can be attributed in equal measure to: (a) his abhorrence of wasting food; and (b) his love of all things resembling cookies.
You don't and won't need any reminder that he'd do absolutely anything for you.
& we love him very much.
Here's a little look back for Shawn's first Father's Day. Make sure your volume is turned on. This is by no means an artistic masterpiece, as I have no idea how to use photo editing/movie making software {yet}, but at least nothing is upside down or muted {i hope}.
8: number of months old you are. 4: sharp little teeth in your mouth. 7: ounces of formula in each bottle you drink. 6: number of bottles you hold all by yourself every day. 42: approximate number of ounces of formula you drink every day. 32: recommended daily maximum number of ounces of formula. 26 1/2: what you weigh, in pounds, as a result. 19: average weight, in pounds, of an 8 month old. 3: number of pounds by which you exceed the weight of my co-worker's 3 year old. 9: approximate number of diaper changes you go through per day. 9: approximate number of times you cry on the changing table until you get to hold the lotion bottle. 1: number of times you've gotten poop in your own hair. 7: weeks of swimming lessons completed by our little shrimp kipper. 5: weeks your stuffed & runny nose has dragged on, poor baby. 175: number of people it would require to hold down a 26 pound baby in order to administer eyedrops. 2: number of people actually administering said eyedrops. 90: approximate failure rate percentage, unsurprisingly. you are wily. and strong. 18: size, in months, of ralph lauren jumper your grandfather had to cut off of you with scissors because it was too tight. 6: minimum number of people who stop me on a daily basis to exclaim over your cuteness. 0: number of nights you've slept by yourself.
Nugget, the numbers don't tell even half of the story. {I've always had a robust suspicion of numbers anyhow}. The real story is in the uncounted daily wealth of smiles, cuddles, giggles, bounces, and prayers of thanks. I can't keep track of it all in my mind, on paper, on this blog, or on film. But I know that somewhere, in my heart, there is a vast and ever-expanding storage facility for all of this joy. Because just when I think my heart might burst, you smile your beaming, goofy, toothy grin, and it just expands instead. Happy 8 months, CP.
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