A Painted House

Dear Edison: Month Nine

Posted on: August 22, 2011

Dear Edison,

You’re nine months old!  You’ve doubled your lifespan, having now spent as much time outside my body as you did inside.  I trust you find this world to be much more exciting than your previous environment, if only because out here we have food.  And you LOVE food.  In fact you learned to scoot in order to reach your brother’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich which I thought was out of reach.  Rather than give up the opportunity to taste something you saw someone else eating you instantly learned to propel your own body forward for the first time.  That’s like me seeing one of our neighbors enjoying a new Taco Bell entre and instead of taking note and moving on, attempting and succeeding to fly across the yard in order to swipe it from his grasp.  Impressive, little one.  (As a side note, you also finally, finally rolled over this month.  If I’d only known that all it would take to motivate you was an ill-advised snack, we could have crossed that milestone off of the list ages ago.)

And whoo boy were you mad when I jumped in and fished every last bit of peanut buttery, allergy-prone goodness out of your mouth.  You’ve reached that magical age where you realize you can protest if something doesn’t please you, in hopes that the sheer decibel of your voice will produce better results.  I’m here to tell you that in this house volume isn’t going to earn you permission to try something dangerous, no matter how ardently you want to.  Unless of course you’re screaming “My Mommy is so pretty!” on repeat; then you may jump off the top bunk all you want.  We’ll just hope that “pretty” and your Dad’s personal work connection is enough to keep those nice ER doctors from calling social services, mkay?

I’m guessing you were extra cranky about it because you were just sure you could handle that sandwich, what with the two new teeth that have sprouted from your bottom gums.  I can’t say I blame you.  If I had a new toy that cost me several weeks of pain before it finally, achingly slowly arrived I’d be anxious to try it out too.  We were thrilled to notice that those teeth had finally come in because you’d been working on them for so long that your Dad and I were beginning to fear your mood swings had less to do with discomfort and more to do with a split personality.  Thankfully once your teeth popped through your personality bounced right back to its sunny self so we can go back to assuming any genetically induced crazy will be limited to compulsively tucking your t-shirts into your jean shorts and the urge to spray paint any static object white.

In some ways I feel I should have just let you have the sandwich, allergies and choking hazard be darned.  You, like your brother before you, are steadily slipping your way down the national growth chart.  At your nine month checkup your stats place you a good quarter of an inch below the curve.  In fact you’re farther below the chart than James ever was because you’re a full inch taller than he was at this age, further stretching what little fat you have over your slim frame.  I had to laugh because the first time I had a skinny  baby I blamed it on his distaste for food in general and hair trigger gag reflex.  However you haven’t met a meal you didn’t want.  So it seems your wiry little body is just how your Dad and I make babies.  And to be honest, I prefer your little body over the cutest chubby baby out there.  You fit just right on my hip, you curl into my side like you were made to be there, and your quarter-sized eyes radiating out of your petite little face could melt stone.  It’s a compulsion I rarely resist, to nibble on that sweet spot just below your left ear.  I could just eat you up, Edison, like a peanut butter sandwich.

Love, Mama

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