Jacob at 9 months
My dearest Jake-a-boo,
Today you turned 9 months old, meaning you have spent as much time in the world as you did in the womb. Well, technically, you came out of the womb two days early, so this "equivalency day" happened four days ago. But who's counting? I'm in the middle of writing my second book, and you're lucky if you get a nice little post more than once a week now. You're super-lucky if I can remember your month-birthdays. And look! I did!
Today I'm going to make a little confession, mainly because your evil father poured me a glass of wine that was far, far too large and it brings out memories. I make this confession also because I am your mother and so no matter what I say or what you do, I love more than almost anything in the entire universe, more than jumping in piles of raked leaves; more than gingerbread lattes, those harbingers of Christmastime; more than your father. I say "almost" because I love you exactly as much as I love your brother. This is saying a lot.
Ever since you were born, you have been my baby. When your brother was born, he was our baby. Dada and I were both working at the time and, while I did take off three months to figure out why, God, why the hospital had sent him home with me, who knew zip about babies, Dada shared in much of the parenting duties. He never could figure out how to lactate, but he did a lot of other things because he had to so I could finish my degree.
When your brother was first born, I was afraid of him. I had never changed a diaper in my life. Here was this little dude, ripping my poor boobies apart, and I was terrified that I would drop him, among other things. He sensed my fear and preferred Dada for the first two weeks. After that I assume he had done a risk-assessment and calculated that the probability of my accidentally killing or maiming him was not so great that he should avoid learning more about this nice lady with the yummy boobie juice, and suddenly we were tight. But it was nice to have another figure to turn to, this Dada person, to have options, you know?
When you were born, my dearest Jakey Monster, there was nothing for me but to love you. I knew, from real-world experience, that you were unlikely to die in my care. The first night we were in the hospital together I insisted on changing your diapers. I scoffed at the wussy first-time mom in the bed next to me who flatly insisted on the nurses doing everything, on keeping her hands clean of this whole baby-business until she absolutely had to. While I was thoroughly enjoying your brother in his toddlerhood, I also got to enjoy your infancy. Your Dada is now gainfully employed and does not get to participate in your babyhood as much as he would like, as much as he did with your brother. He loves you so much, but you are only recently interested in him. He is another, highly entertaining plaything in your universe, much like your brother. Mama is your world, and she loves it. Except when you are a fussy teething monster who refuses to go to sleep like a good little mini-me. Then she only likes it.
But here, here is my secret confession: when you were born, I worried. Not about things that mommies usually worry about, you know -- jaundice, weight gain, explosive farts. None of those. You were so normal and getting so fat, there was nothing to worry about there. No, I was worried about more important things. I worried that you were uglier than your brother.
Don't get me wrong, you were cute. You had so much hair, and you were already pinchable and rotund. But you had to compete with your brother, He of the Devastating Charm. As a mother of one, you naturally think your child is destined for reproductive greatness. But what if your second comes along and he's not quite as breathtaking? What if, later in life, every girl he brings home is forced to gaze upon the handsome older brother and perhaps make an uncomfortable choice?
As a mother, your first concern is that your babies be healthy and happy. But if they are already both, you then ardently wish for them to be equally pretty. Poor you -- you were saddled with that drab dark brown hair and, worst of all, your mother's nose, which she ardently desired to have surgically altered when she was in middle school -- to compete with your older brother, spouting off full sentences before his second birthday to flirt with the campus honeys as he shakes his thick golden locks in the breeze. I was upset thinking of a future where you might be made painfully aware of this, one where you got a lower score than he on "Hot or Not?" and your life was ruined.
But fate decided that it should set the stage for this Mama to have maximal potential for future grandbabies. While you have kept my unfortunate nose, you have also kept those sinfully blue eyes. And your hair, much more voluminous than your brother's at his age, has magically become blond, too. And you are charming in your own right, so happy and easy to laugh. All the ladies now turn their attention to you, with your little shy-boy game. "Hi there, cutie!" they say, and you give a sly smile and turn your face into my chest, turning your face ever so slightly to peek out slidelong.
It would appear that, in about 15 years, the ladies will have a terrible choice before them: the blond, hazel-eyed smooth-talker? or the blond, blue-eyed body-builder? I can feel my genetic fitness shooting through the roof with you two. I'm so proud.
Love you,
Mama.
Today you turned 9 months old, meaning you have spent as much time in the world as you did in the womb. Well, technically, you came out of the womb two days early, so this "equivalency day" happened four days ago. But who's counting? I'm in the middle of writing my second book, and you're lucky if you get a nice little post more than once a week now. You're super-lucky if I can remember your month-birthdays. And look! I did!
Today I'm going to make a little confession, mainly because your evil father poured me a glass of wine that was far, far too large and it brings out memories. I make this confession also because I am your mother and so no matter what I say or what you do, I love more than almost anything in the entire universe, more than jumping in piles of raked leaves; more than gingerbread lattes, those harbingers of Christmastime; more than your father. I say "almost" because I love you exactly as much as I love your brother. This is saying a lot.
Ever since you were born, you have been my baby. When your brother was born, he was our baby. Dada and I were both working at the time and, while I did take off three months to figure out why, God, why the hospital had sent him home with me, who knew zip about babies, Dada shared in much of the parenting duties. He never could figure out how to lactate, but he did a lot of other things because he had to so I could finish my degree.
When your brother was first born, I was afraid of him. I had never changed a diaper in my life. Here was this little dude, ripping my poor boobies apart, and I was terrified that I would drop him, among other things. He sensed my fear and preferred Dada for the first two weeks. After that I assume he had done a risk-assessment and calculated that the probability of my accidentally killing or maiming him was not so great that he should avoid learning more about this nice lady with the yummy boobie juice, and suddenly we were tight. But it was nice to have another figure to turn to, this Dada person, to have options, you know?
When you were born, my dearest Jakey Monster, there was nothing for me but to love you. I knew, from real-world experience, that you were unlikely to die in my care. The first night we were in the hospital together I insisted on changing your diapers. I scoffed at the wussy first-time mom in the bed next to me who flatly insisted on the nurses doing everything, on keeping her hands clean of this whole baby-business until she absolutely had to. While I was thoroughly enjoying your brother in his toddlerhood, I also got to enjoy your infancy. Your Dada is now gainfully employed and does not get to participate in your babyhood as much as he would like, as much as he did with your brother. He loves you so much, but you are only recently interested in him. He is another, highly entertaining plaything in your universe, much like your brother. Mama is your world, and she loves it. Except when you are a fussy teething monster who refuses to go to sleep like a good little mini-me. Then she only likes it.
But here, here is my secret confession: when you were born, I worried. Not about things that mommies usually worry about, you know -- jaundice, weight gain, explosive farts. None of those. You were so normal and getting so fat, there was nothing to worry about there. No, I was worried about more important things. I worried that you were uglier than your brother.
Don't get me wrong, you were cute. You had so much hair, and you were already pinchable and rotund. But you had to compete with your brother, He of the Devastating Charm. As a mother of one, you naturally think your child is destined for reproductive greatness. But what if your second comes along and he's not quite as breathtaking? What if, later in life, every girl he brings home is forced to gaze upon the handsome older brother and perhaps make an uncomfortable choice?
As a mother, your first concern is that your babies be healthy and happy. But if they are already both, you then ardently wish for them to be equally pretty. Poor you -- you were saddled with that drab dark brown hair and, worst of all, your mother's nose, which she ardently desired to have surgically altered when she was in middle school -- to compete with your older brother, spouting off full sentences before his second birthday to flirt with the campus honeys as he shakes his thick golden locks in the breeze. I was upset thinking of a future where you might be made painfully aware of this, one where you got a lower score than he on "Hot or Not?" and your life was ruined.
But fate decided that it should set the stage for this Mama to have maximal potential for future grandbabies. While you have kept my unfortunate nose, you have also kept those sinfully blue eyes. And your hair, much more voluminous than your brother's at his age, has magically become blond, too. And you are charming in your own right, so happy and easy to laugh. All the ladies now turn their attention to you, with your little shy-boy game. "Hi there, cutie!" they say, and you give a sly smile and turn your face into my chest, turning your face ever so slightly to peek out slidelong.
It would appear that, in about 15 years, the ladies will have a terrible choice before them: the blond, hazel-eyed smooth-talker? or the blond, blue-eyed body-builder? I can feel my genetic fitness shooting through the roof with you two. I'm so proud.
Love you,
Mama.
posted by Claire at 10:56 PM
1 Comments:
Your such a great Mama!!! Keep up the good work!!!!
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