What happened to my sweet, serene Buddhist monk baby? His calm demeanor has been mysteriously supplanted by that of a wild animal. At home, it’s like babysitting a drunk Mickey Rourke. He nose dives for whatever catches his eye, taking you with him. When I try to diaper his goods, he kicks so hard he levitates off the couch. These kicks also have precision (right in the boob, sister). He prefers vacuum cords to toys. He prefers paper above all. I cannot tell you how many times I have to pry his jaw open to extract gloms of chewed-up magazine flyer or…used tissue (that was really special). Whenever he’s quiet for too long, it’s because he’s found a random envelope or receipt. Our apartment looks Apocalpyse Nowish, and he barely crawls. Wait till he runs!
Day care teachers describe him as a quiet, observant boy, excellent at feeding himself both solids and milk from a bottle. Ha! At home, I’ve given him the bottle, positioning his hands properly, and they fall away like limp broccoli. With finger food, it must be fed to him, Greek emperor meal-style. He looks at me and says, “Woman, that is not going to fly.”
Still, he’s got these tiny chiclet teeth. That alone kills me, and that’s only the beginning of my list. Oh sure, then there’s when he laughs, or when I talc his bum — that reminds me patting a chicken breast with flour before frying. I tell him that every time we go there.