This week, the calendar pages come fluttering off the wall, and Baby B-Dub reaches nine months of age. Which means he’s been out as long as he was in. And it’s becoming increasingly clear that we’re screwed. But that’s okay. We like it. Happy nine months, kiddo.
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Christmas came and Christmas went, and in the wake of Santa Jesus we found the flotsam and jetsam of a child’s joy –what I’m saying is, our living room exploded and gave birth to a metric ass-ton of baby toys. And now, over a week later, I’m left rocking back and forth. In the corner.
Somebody — and I won’t name names, but he’s the tiny dude over there in the high chair, ahem — is now eating solid food. And by “solid” I of course mean “pureed into a largely non-solid state.” It’s not like he’s eating turkey legs or shelling pistachios.
It’s too early to see how else or how often that glimmer of my father will appear in my son — maybe it’ll come and go and then leave for a time, or maybe it’ll always be there. My son is strong. Independent and stubborn. Like my father and, perhaps to a lesser degree, like me. He’s already good with his hands — my father worked with his hands.
B-Dub, though, he’s rapt. He’ll brighten when Big Bird comes on. He’ll talk to Abby the whatever-the-fuck-she-is. Fairy? She’s a fairy, right? Hell, soon as that new guy Murray shows up, B-Dub’s in. He’s invested. And then, of course, Elmo shows. Elmo. Fuuuuuckin’ Elmo.
Here at terribleminds I talk a lot about our new son, He-Who-Is-Nicknamed “B-Dub,” and this time I thought maybe I’d show you him in motion. From Then until Now. I apologize in advance for the diabetes and cavities this will cause you. He’s very high on the Glycemic Index, this baby. Just too sweet.
