Little Tootse is nine months old now. The months go faster and faster…
This month, she slept through the night fairly reliably. Sparks, who gets up to give her her morning bottle between 5 and 6am, might argue that point. But it sure seems to me that she’s sleeping well (har har).
This month, she’s been staging revolts against spoon feeding. Right now, I can feed her if I let her have a second spoon to hold while I do it. Right now, she likes to sit on the sofa by her dad and share a bag of popcorn.
This month, she will drink from a sippy cup… then spit it out all over herself.
This month, she is all-the-sudden older, wiser, funnier, and more loving and lovable than ever. Sometimes I can get her to give me a sloppy-wet baby kiss. Sometimes I can get her to hold eye contact with me and grin and squeal and make me the happiest mama on the planet. Mostly though, this month, she just has to go-go-go-go-go. Chairs, playards, saucers, even the cordoned-off fireplace nook are NOT ENOUGH. She needs to GO PLACES, and she needs to do it NOW. I am trying to keep up, to babyproof the house ahead of her, and to lower my standards of decorous mothering and baby-behavior. This week’s most memorable moment was the ten minutes I spent moving all the kitchen chemicals onto high shelves… while she put handfuls of cat food into the cat’s water bowl and tried to scoop them out with her lunchtime spoon, which she still had in her pudgy little fist and would not surrender all that afternoon. Eventually the water bowl got tipped, Mimi got soaked, and everyone ended up in pajamas for the rest of the day.
Do you know how everyone acts like their rugrags are the cutest, most fascinating, most important beings on the whole planet? Well, mine actually is.