Climber Monkey

It's been a long week.

Really long.

My baby can pull himself to standing. He can creep along. He can fall on his head and scream. Over and over and over again.

And, with all this crazy climber monkey activity, we've got some sleep regression.

I am so tired.

I don't know if it's burn out, or depression, or just plain regular tired, but I don't want to do anything. I don't want to grocery shop. I don't want to work. I don't want to pick up or cook or get up and brush my teeth. My math is broken, my head is fuzzy, and I just can't think. I'm fogged.

I just want 8 consecutive hours of sleep.

Mongo the Destroyer

My baby is huge.

Every time I go to playgroup, I am reminded that my baby is huge.

Every time some stranger asks how old he is, then gives me that eye-bugging look when I tell them, I know that he's a big boy.

We had to acquire new jammies (my mother in law bought some--Gammy Jammies) in a size 18 month. He'll be 8 months tomorrow.

Giant boy.

Most of it is height. He's in normal territory for weight. He's off the charts in height, so all this one piece stuff is sized up.

I think of him as a sweet tiny little boy, because he's my first and he is the baby standard I've learned. But, he's giant. He's as big as the one year olds at the park. He's got giant hands and giant feet; if he were a dog, we'd all be talking about how enormous he'll have to get to grow into his paws.

Supposedly, breastfed babies grow much faster at first. His growth rate is supposed to slow down dramatically after 6 months. So, maybe that's it. We'll see.

Weary

I am tired. Really, really tired.

But! My house is clean, my baby is asleep, my curtains are hemmed, my quilt has three rows stitched, and I got a damned good deal on some diapers.

And, I cooked dinner.

And, beer. I have a beer.

So, all things considered, it could be worse.

All the control-freak notions--the feeling that I couldn't get things under control--have subsided considerably. I've streamlined, and pared down, and downsized, and decluttered. I'm organized and scheduled, and I feel like I just may have a handle on things.

And, I have homemade pie for dessert.

What sort of mother of an 7 month old should have time for baking a damned pie, anyway?

I'm freaking my husband out, though, with all this newfound tidiness and increased thriftiness and general vibe of self-improvement. I have lists. I have a calendar. I don't leave the dishes in the sink. I'm requesting a new bathing suit. It's all very strange. Or, maybe it's just summer.

Teeth and Toys

He's got two teeth!

And, with it, he's got pain. And, whining. And, wanting only to sit in Mama's lap. And, to gnaw on celery sticks, then throw them on the floor.

His little collection of toys is growing. He's got some rattles, some little stuffed animals, two big-wheeled trucks, three tennis balls, a wipes box with some blocks in it, and an old cell phone.

He also likes window envelopes and the cardboard tubes from paper towels.

I figure that he will, eventually, end up in that horrid state that nearly every one I know with children has to deal with--Plastic Crap Overload. Kid's meal prizes, cheap holiday gifts, party favors, family presents, stuffed animals covering half a twin mattress, large plastic slides and large plastic playhouses, matchbox cars and actions figures--just the stuff modern American children seem to accumulate. And, I figure that I will be powerless in the face of the toy avalanche--that eventually, it will take over 75% of my home. And, I will end up giving up the dining area or half the living room to storing garish, probably toxic stuff that he'll only have an interest in for 10 minutes, once.

For right now, though, it all fits in a laundry basket.