CP-
Yesterday, when I got to the office, my voicemail button was blinking. I rolled my eyes, drew a deep breath, forgot my voicemail password, remembered my voicemail password, and pressed "3" to listen to my new message. The operator told me that I received a new message at 7:30 a.m. I wondered who could be so obnoxiously ambitious on a Monday morning. As the message began to play, I heard some breathing, then beeping noises-- clearly the caller was dialing a number while on my voicemail. At first, I suspected spam telemarketing. Next, I thought it was some kind of heavy-breather prank call. Then, my mind briefly ran down a list of partners and senior associates who might be so blundering as to leave such a message. Finally , between the beeps of pressed keys, I heard "gak! gawk! gook!"
It was you, calling me from your dad's cellphone.
I listened to the whole 5 minute message, which took up my entire inbox time allowance. Thanks for calling. Definitely the best voice mail I've ever gotten.
I started this letter to you on August 31st, which is only 2 days after your 11-monthday.
Now, it is September 20th, and you are going to be one in 9 days.
So, this letter is a bit late.
But, better late than never.
Right after you turned 10 months old, your father and I finally decided it was time to acquaint you with your exceedingly expensive teething toy-- also known as the Pottery Barn Kids Kendall Crib sitting in your nursery. Up until this point, you'd taken occasional {brief} naps in the crib, but still slept with us at night. For the most part, this meant that one of us had to go to bed whenever you did. Which, by the way, was whatever time you felt like it. Often as late as 10:00. Sometimes later. We had no "bedtime routine" other than "he doesn't look tired yet....nope, still not tired....still awake.... bath.... still awake...snuggle in bed....endure headbutting...watch as you climbed our headboard....still awake... still awake....storytime....still awake....then finally off to dreamland at an absurdly late and unpredictable hour. You'd spend the night thrashing about, terrorizing your father and I until we had been gouged, kicked, and slapped into submission along the mattress edges. Sometimes you would cuddle with me, in the crook of my arm, which was breathtakingly sweet. But mostly you just tried to pull my eyelashes out.
So, it was time for a change.
We decided that we needed a bedtime routine. 8:00 bath, then nighttime diaper and jammies, followed by a good-night bottle and story time in our bed, then an 8:30 bedtime in your crib. I braced myself for the backlash. We decided in advance that we were definitely not going to let you "cry it out" alone in your nursery, but would rub your back and soothe you while you were in the crib, without lifting you out. That way, you would know you were not alone and that your crib was a safe place for you to sleep. You caught on like a champ. You do resist & cry occasionally, but not often. More often than not, I lay you in the crib, then lay down on your rug. You follow suit, and stick your chubby little arm out of the crib slat to hold my finger, and drift off to sleep through your babbles and giggles. You don't always sleep through the whole night, but can usually be reassured with a simple pat on the back and a whispered "Connor, I'm here." In the mornings, you get up {early. so early} sometime between 5:15 and 6:15. We know you are "up for the day" when we hear you talking in the crib, announcing your wakefulness with a series of "gak! gak.... gak!" proclamations until I plod down the hallway, open the nursery door, and see you standing in the crib, smiling and squinting in the new light. You bounce with excitement at the prospect of a new day. It's impossible not to smile in return. The morning experience could only be improved if PotteryBarn Kids invented a crib that was also a babyproof latte dispenser.
Although it is hard for me to believe, you are often mistaken for a girl. Nevermind the fact that 99% of what you wear is unmistakable "boy" clothing. I'm not really sure what is wrong with people, but I was under the impression that there was some kind of social compact whereby, if you come across a baby dressed in a navy polo shirt and truck-embroidered courduroy pants, if you are still on the fence as to the baby's gender YOU SHOULD GUESS BOY. I mean, I dont' want to peg baby wardrobes into particular genders. If you are the proud parent of a lovely baby girl and want her to wear navy polos and truck pants, I think you should do so. But surely THE VAST MAJORITY of babies dressed in such fashion are going to be boys. And yet. And yet. Well, usually these encounters go something like this:
Passerby unaware of social compact: "oh, she's so sweet! look at those cheeks!"
Me: "Thanks. He's a boy. His name is Connor."
Passerby: "Oh. what a doll."
Me: polite smile. semi-restrained eyeroll.
The script goes quite differently, of course, when your confrontation-averse father is out with you.
Elderly grocery store cashier: "Oh, she's so sweet! Look at those cheeks!"
Shawn: "Thanks."
Old lady cashier: "So, what's her name?"
Shawn: "Uh, Michelle."
So, now we can't go back to our neighborhood grocery store.
Your unbelievable cuteness has not diminished a bit. There is a 20-something girl in our neighborhood who I know only as "the dog girl." She has a small ugly dog named Guenevere. Once she called the dog "a dog" in its presence then apologized to the dog, explaining that "Gwennie doesn't like being called a dog!" This self-averse pooch is the proud owner of a $600 bugaboo baby stroller and is regularly walked by her owner who wears $350 Christian Louboutain 4 inch stilettos for their outings. Suffice it to say I used to think this girl was a total loon. But she has totally redeemed herself by referring to you, always, as "the cutest baby in the world." She walks past in her designer footwear with that pitiful dog every day and calls out "how's the cutest baby in the world doing?!" Even the crazies know you're cute. Even if they don't know you're a boy.
Well, at 11 months, you are in love with the word "gak." You love to dance to banjo music. You still hate almost all food {although nobody believes me on this one in light of your physique}. You cruise and crawl with wild abandon and love when your dad chases you. You're desperate to figure out how to open the babyproofing staircase gates. You've definitely outsmarted the 'under the kitchen sink' lock more than once.
You grow our hearts every day, and we love you so much CP.
Love,
Mommy
I started this letter to you on August 31st, which is only 2 days after your 11-monthday.
Now, it is September 20th, and you are going to be one in 9 days.
So, this letter is a bit late.
But, better late than never.
Right after you turned 10 months old, your father and I finally decided it was time to acquaint you with your exceedingly expensive teething toy-- also known as the Pottery Barn Kids Kendall Crib sitting in your nursery. Up until this point, you'd taken occasional {brief} naps in the crib, but still slept with us at night. For the most part, this meant that one of us had to go to bed whenever you did. Which, by the way, was whatever time you felt like it. Often as late as 10:00. Sometimes later. We had no "bedtime routine" other than "he doesn't look tired yet....nope, still not tired....still awake.... bath.... still awake...snuggle in bed....endure headbutting...watch as you climbed our headboard....still awake... still awake....storytime....still awake....then finally off to dreamland at an absurdly late and unpredictable hour. You'd spend the night thrashing about, terrorizing your father and I until we had been gouged, kicked, and slapped into submission along the mattress edges. Sometimes you would cuddle with me, in the crook of my arm, which was breathtakingly sweet. But mostly you just tried to pull my eyelashes out.
So, it was time for a change.
We decided that we needed a bedtime routine. 8:00 bath, then nighttime diaper and jammies, followed by a good-night bottle and story time in our bed, then an 8:30 bedtime in your crib. I braced myself for the backlash. We decided in advance that we were definitely not going to let you "cry it out" alone in your nursery, but would rub your back and soothe you while you were in the crib, without lifting you out. That way, you would know you were not alone and that your crib was a safe place for you to sleep. You caught on like a champ. You do resist & cry occasionally, but not often. More often than not, I lay you in the crib, then lay down on your rug. You follow suit, and stick your chubby little arm out of the crib slat to hold my finger, and drift off to sleep through your babbles and giggles. You don't always sleep through the whole night, but can usually be reassured with a simple pat on the back and a whispered "Connor, I'm here." In the mornings, you get up {early. so early} sometime between 5:15 and 6:15. We know you are "up for the day" when we hear you talking in the crib, announcing your wakefulness with a series of "gak! gak.... gak!" proclamations until I plod down the hallway, open the nursery door, and see you standing in the crib, smiling and squinting in the new light. You bounce with excitement at the prospect of a new day. It's impossible not to smile in return. The morning experience could only be improved if PotteryBarn Kids invented a crib that was also a babyproof latte dispenser.
Although it is hard for me to believe, you are often mistaken for a girl. Nevermind the fact that 99% of what you wear is unmistakable "boy" clothing. I'm not really sure what is wrong with people, but I was under the impression that there was some kind of social compact whereby, if you come across a baby dressed in a navy polo shirt and truck-embroidered courduroy pants, if you are still on the fence as to the baby's gender YOU SHOULD GUESS BOY. I mean, I dont' want to peg baby wardrobes into particular genders. If you are the proud parent of a lovely baby girl and want her to wear navy polos and truck pants, I think you should do so. But surely THE VAST MAJORITY of babies dressed in such fashion are going to be boys. And yet. And yet. Well, usually these encounters go something like this:
Passerby unaware of social compact: "oh, she's so sweet! look at those cheeks!"
Me: "Thanks. He's a boy. His name is Connor."
Passerby: "Oh. what a doll."
Me: polite smile. semi-restrained eyeroll.
The script goes quite differently, of course, when your confrontation-averse father is out with you.
Elderly grocery store cashier: "Oh, she's so sweet! Look at those cheeks!"
Shawn: "Thanks."
Old lady cashier: "So, what's her name?"
Shawn: "Uh, Michelle."
So, now we can't go back to our neighborhood grocery store.
Your unbelievable cuteness has not diminished a bit. There is a 20-something girl in our neighborhood who I know only as "the dog girl." She has a small ugly dog named Guenevere. Once she called the dog "a dog" in its presence then apologized to the dog, explaining that "Gwennie doesn't like being called a dog!" This self-averse pooch is the proud owner of a $600 bugaboo baby stroller and is regularly walked by her owner who wears $350 Christian Louboutain 4 inch stilettos for their outings. Suffice it to say I used to think this girl was a total loon. But she has totally redeemed herself by referring to you, always, as "the cutest baby in the world." She walks past in her designer footwear with that pitiful dog every day and calls out "how's the cutest baby in the world doing?!" Even the crazies know you're cute. Even if they don't know you're a boy.
Well, at 11 months, you are in love with the word "gak." You love to dance to banjo music. You still hate almost all food {although nobody believes me on this one in light of your physique}. You cruise and crawl with wild abandon and love when your dad chases you. You're desperate to figure out how to open the babyproofing staircase gates. You've definitely outsmarted the 'under the kitchen sink' lock more than once.
You grow our hearts every day, and we love you so much CP.
Love,
Mommy
* no, I have not actually seen the Spinal Tap movie. I have not stayed awake for an entire feature film since sometime in the late 1980s.
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