A Painted House

Archive for November 2011

Dear Edison,

Happy birthday!  You’re a whole year old!  I’m not entirely sure how that happened, as I swear you were just born a few months ago.  In the real world you may have continued to age but in my head you’ve stalled out somewhere around seven months.  So I continually find it shocking when you’re able to do more, understand more, imitate more than I think you should at your age.  This month you figured out how to stack items to make your own towers, put small items into and take them out of baskets, and disassemble the dishwasher.  You think I’m exaggerating but you’re a magnet to that appliance and every time I lower the dishwasher door you come crawling as fast as your little bum can wiggle.  And then you pull out the silverware drawer, scoot the bottom rack off of it’s rails and test the hinges as you climb up onto the lowered door.  And then you smile at me with that adorable grin as you sit amongst the rubble.

Speaking of that grin, it’s changed a bit this month.  Your top two teeth came through, bringing the total to four and completing your jack-o-lantern smile.  Heaven help us if every tooth you gain equals as much drooling, not-sleeping, and general crankiness that these four have brought.  I just might have to find us a baby dentist and get you fitted with a killer set of shiny new dentures.  I promise it won’t look creepy at all to see a one-year-old with a full set of pearly whites.  Really.  Thankfully your mood bounces back the minute that first point pokes through and we’re rewarded with about a hundred opportunities per day to admire your new acquisitions as you giggle your way through life.

Your new teeth have significantly helped your already great eating habits.  You’ve become really effective at squashing up tougher foods so I’ve felt comfortable expanding your menus to include things like chicken nuggets.  It’s a monumental, life-changing day in a kid’s life, the day when their parent hands them that first taste of breaded, fatty, chickeny goodness.  Though we have figured out that you’re not always actually ingesting quite as much food as we thought in one sitting.  It may SEEM like you ate a quarter cup of green beans .  But then we lift you up out of your seat and find seventeen squashed beans, fourteen Cheerios, and three pieces of cheese.  Which is only unfortunate when cheese was not served at this particular meal.  And don’t forget the inevitable surprise I get when I change your diaper later and four peas and an entire cracker fall out.

You’ve started pulling up to a standing position this month and cruising around anything that will hold still.  Furniture, tall toys, walls, the back of my pant legs….if it is stationary for more than three seconds you yank your little tush up off the ground and wobble around it like a drunken monkey.  By the way, your brother haaaates it when you try to use him as one of those stationary objects.  As in full-on freak out, “He’s TOUCHING ME!” mode.  Use that information as you see fit.  It’s darling to watch you take in the world from a new vantage point approximately twelve inches higher than your previous view.  Your curiosity is endless and we’ve had to once again re-evaluate which things you can and cannot reach.  The Tupperware drawer, DVD cabinet and throw pillows?  Go for it.  Cause mass destruction.  Food processor, glass lamps and kitchen trash?  Sorry, but no.

Oh dear, I said “that word.”  Edison, you have a particularly violent reaction to hearing the word “No”.  As in hysterical, disproportionately angsty, face-melting displeasure.  And then you immediately reach for the denied object again, all the while carrying on the racket which subtly hints at your feelings toward being reprimanded.  And while we probably shouldn’t, your Dad and I find it stinkin’ hysterical.  Mostly because you carry the disadvantage of being the second born into a home which already houses a three-year-old.  Sorry, butter bean, but no one-year-old’s post-correction meltdown can hold a candle to what your brother can do when HE’s really upset.  So we gently correct and redirect you, and then hide our grins as your feelings are once again crushed at learning you STILL cannot systematically rip the leaves off of Mommy’s potted plant. 

Love, Mama


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