My 19 month old son, Rhys, has started speaking in sentences. His current favorite being "I GOT YOU!", spoken with all-caps enthusiasm everytime. He also has started saying "I love you", which warms my heart in ways I have no words to convey, even though I'm not convinced he knows what it means.
His favorite thing to say though, is "bootee". That I'm sure he knows the meaning of since he regularly informs me that he means "butt" after he says "bootee". Last night, while we were decorating the wall next to Rhys' bed with glow in the dark stars, my husband noticed that I had drawn the backside of a person on he chalkboard in his room. Earlier Rhys and I were playing and I asked him what he wanted a picture of. His reply was "bootee", so a bootee he got. This led to a discussion of the proper way to say the word. Bootee vs. Bootay, which my son jumped right on.
Now, when my son says glasses (both my husband and I wear them), it comes out sounding more like "sexy" than "glasses". So I'm not sure why we were surprised when he tried out "bootay" it came out sounding more like "pootang".
Once my gut-wrenching laughing reduced to a giggle and I lifted myself off of the floor, it was time to put our son to bed. After teeth brushing, a bath, a story and bedtime kisses, he started to drift off. While he was falling to sleep, he sang himself a song he made up (he does this alot). The whole thing consisted of one word – booteebooteebootee.
I love having a one-year old.
Last night the baby finally slept through the night.
So of course, at 3 a.m., our baby monitor picked up the monitor of another baby in the neighborhood who was up and screaming.
Apparently the universe thinks I look good with bags under my eyes.
The Things I Never Thought I'd Do
We can now add another item to the list of things that I never thought I’d be doing: I am officially on booger patrol.
I’ve discovered one major flaw in the grand design of human anatomy – babies do not have the strength to blow their own nose. And I CAN NOT STAND the sight of boogers in my sons nose. Which means that I am on constant booger alert. Not just the dried and crusty at the end of the nose kind either. Part of our daily routine now involves either my husband or I holding my son down while we suck the snot from his nose with a handy-dandy baby snot-sucking tool. Which my son now recognizes from across the room and immediately begins the squirm and head-turn routine that accompanies each of these attempts.
The boogers don’t seem to bother my husband much. Nor do the daycare workers that care for my son seem at all annoyed by them. And yet, I cannot resist them. Where in my pre-baby life I might have been drawn in by a great bottle of 16-year-old whiskey, or a box of Belgium chocolates enjoyed in Belgium, no my strongest desire is going after boogers.
Abu Ghraib guards have nothing on the Bug
After 3 weeks straight of my son being sick, only wanting Mommy, and me averaging about 3 hours sleep a night, I am so tired I would tell you anything you wanted to know just for 8 hours of uninterupted sleep and a bubble bath. I'd settle just for one of those actually.
The Military really ought to consider using sick children as a torture device.
What's in a name?
Over the course of my pregnancy my husband and I had many *lively* discussions about what to name our son. 20,001 babynames, and there was only 1 that we could agree on. It's a lovely welsh name, with a nice meaning (fiery, zealous) and a not too boring spelling).
So why is it that I never call my son by his name? He's most often "bug" - often with the add ons of "hum-", "grumpy-", "doodle-", "-in-a-rug", etc. more recently I can also be heard calling him "handsome" when I talk to him. The obvious "cutey", "mr. grumpy pants", "stinky butt", and "grumpy von grumperson" are also household favorites.
While this is all great fun, and usually they can get a big smile out of my son (always worth it), I wonder when he will actually know his real name? I imagine aggrivated kindergarten teachers in a few years calling my son by his given name and him not responding.
Even better will be when he starts to call me "silly-mommy" as I'm pretty sure I have never refered to myself as anything but to him.
Since becoming a Mom I noticed that I now have a lot of excess baggage. Not the Dr. Phil kind of baggage – actual baggage. It used to be to leave the house I'd grab my ID, a credit card and off I'd go. Now, in order to leave the house just to go to work I have to have the following:
• My Pump in Style breastpump (conveniently conceled in a snazzy backpack that's fooling no one)
• My work bag (combo briefcase/purse/lunchbag)
• A cup of coffee
• A diaper bag
• A small cooler to transport my sons' bottles to the Child Development Center
• My Son strapped into his car seat
• and on those rare days when I work out, a gym bag
I have packed less for long weekends away.
There were many things I expected to experience when I had my first child.
Daily conversations about bowel movements was definitely not one of them.