letter to connor {9 months}

chief peanut-

I'd like to say that I deliberately wrote this 9 month post several weeks late in a sort of symmetrical homage to your unusually long, a-few-weeks-past-9-months gestational period. {You know, that time when I was on pre-delivery maternity leave, having completely lost track of the location of my ankles and getting plumper by the day, while waiting and waiting for your late arrival?} But, no, this 9 month letter is getting written just 2 weeks shy of your 10 month-day {what?!} because I have approximately 7-10 seconds of free time per day during which I could update this little blog. But, better late than never! {I mean, you were quite tardy yourself, and we think you turned out pretty great}.

So, big changes since last month. When you were 8 months old, your father and I were like "Isn't this easy!? Let's have 10 more immediately! People are so over-dramatic when they say that having a baby is exhausting!" Then... IT happened.

You figured out how to move.

Like, we put you down, and you don't stay where we put you.

Jeebus, save us.

You first squeaked your chubby knees across the dining room floor on Father's Day-- more of a very slow, lumbering reflection on "the idea of moving forward" rather than an actual crawl. But over the next few days, you picked up speed and coordination and are now expertly mobile, if still a bit Godzilla-like in your four-legged progress. Your curiosity is insatiable, and seems to be directed exclusively at things that can (a) electrocute you; (b) pinch off your fingers; and/or (c) cause irreparable damage to your still-forming skull. {sidenote: you also really wish I'd let you play with the camera}

Within 10 seconds of figuring out how to crawl, you subsequently discovered the marvel of pulling up to standing. On everything. I'm reconsidering my previous objections to your father's wishes to wrap you up in bubble-wrap foam for the next few years.

This month you've also started to demonstrate a much stronger personality than the placid Connor of yore. And by "stronger" I mean: you are a biter. You love biting people. We are going to have to work on that before preschool. When you bite me on the shoulder and I look you in the eye and say, in a low voice, "Connor, no biting," you just laugh in my face and lunge forward, mouth agape, to sink those six pearly whites deeper into my t-shirt. You like to play rough with your dad. When you "play" slap him in the face, your dad makes the "smack" sound effect, which you find endlessly hilarious. I really hope our vision insurance plan covers annual eyeglass replacement. And possible eyeball replacement. You are of the opinion that eye gouging is fair game:

You are a huge flirt. You thrive off of others' praise for you and their interest in your adorable cheeks. Often, you catch sight of a stranger before they notice you, and you pre-emptively smile, turn on your twinkle eyes, and giggle, until they notice you {and, with the exception of one very very serious lady in church, inevitably exclaim profusely over your cuteness}.

You shake your head "no," until you're dizzy and laughing.

Your first word was "Handoyo." Yes, I know this is not a "real" word, but it is the last name of my college roommate. You mutter "doyo, doyo, Handoyo" all day long.

You say "dadadadadadadeee" quite often, but only occasionally in reference to your father, and usually in reference to something like the toaster.

We're pretty sure that you've also said "good God!" and "dirty!"

Mostly, though, you prefer to "rev your engine" with forceful, guttural exhortations of a solid consonant, like "gggggggggggggggggggggg!" --while you pump your fists in front of you, or ferociously wave an object {like a wooden spoon} up in the air.

You usually love your bottle. Always love some ice cream. Occasionally tolerate purees. And never want to see a bread crumb laid out on your high chair tray ever again. We cannot figure out why, when you put EVERYTHING ELSE in your mouth {including shoes, despite our vigorous protests}, you absolutely refuse to put real, solid food in your mouth. You pick up little food chunks and unceremoniously drop them onto the floor, or vigorously wipe them off the table with a rapid windshield-wiper motion until they are flung to the farthest recesses of the dining room floor.

You love swimming. Just the other day, I looked into buying a fun little floatie device for you that we could use in the pool at the beach. The product description read "for babies 9 months and older." Great! I thought to myself. My kid is 9 months old! Just old enough! But before I plunked down the $29.95-- I read on.

Weight Limit: 28 lbs.

Seeing as you weighed in at your 9 month appointment at a stupendous {possibly regional record-setting} 28 lb 11 oz, you'd be about as bouyant as a brick in that thing. So, your tan little legs will be making waves sans infant floatation devices this summer. Which is just fine by you.

You still sleep with us at night. During the night, you roll right to left, headbutting your father and I until we are each occupying approximately 6 square inches of mattress, and you are spread out horizontally across the width of the queen size bed. I'm pretty sure you are expecting your first "big boy bed" to be a California King.

We wake up every morning to your sweet face. Sometimes you wake up crying. Sometimes you wake up laughing. Sometimes you try to rip your dad's nose off while he is still asleep. Mornings with you are the best.

You have no idea why we spent hundreds of dollars on a Pottery Barn Kids crib {neither does your father} since you have absolutely no intention of ever sleeping in one. Or, really, staying in one for more than 6 minutes. Was $400 too much to spend on a teething toy?

You love watching the garbage trucks come up our street on Monday mornings. And yes, you even get the waste management employees to wave and smile at you.

You're the best kid in the world, cp. We can't wait to see what you do next.

Love

Mommy

now, back to work.