Seven Months and Counting...

Dear Sam -

Today marks the beginning of your seventh month. Just like I do every month on your birth day, whenever I see the clock I try and remember what was happening at that time on the day you were born. It was just about this time of day when I told your father that I felt like I was getting punched on tailbone, but from the inside. The OB resident didn't even bother to check me, but your father had enough sense in him to call my real doctor. Once the doctor got there I threw up and then you were born. What a lovely story.

Honestly, it seems like yesterday, little boy, that I was holding you in my arms for the first time. Last night as you were nursing, you sprawled across my lap and I was amazed at the size of you. Cut you off at the legs and that's how big you were when you were born. Torso sized. Every time I look at you I almost see a half-grown man. Part of that is because you've started to exhibit some more 'grown up' behavior, as well. You are starting to attempt communication, and even though smacking the spoon full of beets away as it approaches your mouth is effective, it's bit juvenile, don't you think?

Your days are full of play. However, instead of the scads of bright and shiny toys you have, your favorite things to play with are an empty plastic cup and an old VCR remote with no batteries. I fear we may have to take the remote with us everywhere because if you even catch sight of any electronic device of approximately the same size, you must have it. And should the lady at the mall refuse to you her cell phone, you freak the eff out. You do have a few other things you like to play with, including the cat and this big thing called an activity triangle. We recently bought you a drum, too, since you seem to like smacking the shit out of surfaces. When we took you to the Cheesecake Factory with your gram and pap, you were totally happy as long as you could bang on the table, preferably with a spoon.

We are rapidly running out of the free clothes we received at the various showers. At the end of the day sometimes you seem to big for what I dressed you in that morning. So we've resorted to only dressing you in hats.


Just kidding.

You babble uncontrollably, and you love when I imitate you. Consequently, if any of you are ever on the phone with me and I start going 'babababa' please know that I'm keeping Sam entertained and not having a stroke or mocking you. Your daddy and I have started to try and teach you some baby sign language. They say it takes a few weeks for you to start signing back. Naturally, your father sees this as the ultimate competition. If he can get you to sign 'Daddy' before you sign 'Mommy' then he's the winner. I'm not quite sure what the prize is, but perhaps when you are a fully grown male human you can explain to me why boys are like that. I'm putting my money on your first sign being 'Kitty.'


You reach for me now, when I come into the room. That will Never. Get. Old. When I pull you up, you pull into me even closer, and burrow your head into my neck. It's your interpretation of a hug, I think. Sometimes when you are sleeping your dad and I wish we could wake you up to play. I love you, from the first moment in the morning, when I come into your room, and your little feet start moving and your eyes shine bright, to the end of the day, when you collapse into my arms and snuggle in for a bedtime snack.

Happy Birthday, baby boy.

Love, Mama