You took your first steps on Superbowl Sunday at the Pookies' house. I was outside with the girls, so I missed it. Twice. Then, I missed it again on Monday (I heard a loud crash and an even louder wail and ran into the room to find you face down on the floor. That's not how I left you, so, you know, you were probably trying again.) There's been no evidence of further attempts since the shit-eating incident. I don't blame you.
You were sick again. First the stomach flu (oh my God, it was so pathetic--watching your sad, tired little face register surprise then resignation as you were puking up all that banana), followed closely by a double ear infection ("raging," said Urgent Care Doctor). During that time of infirmity and suffering you took the opportunity to cut four more teeth. Fun times. But! You're all better, and you are so fucking effervescent when you're well and whole! We sometimes get so bogged down in your misery that we forget what it's like when nothing hurts. You are spectacular and there is nothing I enjoy more than the minutiae of our time together.
You have discovered the kitchen light switch, but can only reach the "off" position. So while I am making dinner I am also running back and forth to you to switch the lights back on. It's like cooking in a disco. But you love the light switch game and you are totally impressed every time you hit that thing and it goes dark. You are making magic happen.
You haven't slept in like three weeks. I don't know how you're surviving. You must be missing whatever biological imperative for sleep the rest of the human race possesses. Which is great news for you. You'll get through medical school or whatever lickety split. The bad news is that your father and I are genetically inferior and still require a few hours of slumber every now and again. We will begin to address this situation on Friday night. Let me apologize in advance. I don't think it will be a pleasant experience for anyone.
But you eat! Those lovely women I wrote about a few days ago gave me some useful suggestions that I immediately put into effect. We put the highchair in the kitchen and I let you nosh in it as soon as I come home from work. We get to hang out while I'm making dinner, and your nibbling distracts you from the fact that you are not in my arms every second that we are together. By the time your father gets home and our dinner is on the table, you're mostly sated and you kind of wander between us stealing bites from our plates. It's not civilized, but it works and we're all getting through the evenings without any hysteria, which is a nice change.
That is all for today.
I love you,