Saturday, March 2, 2013

Eight Months

Oliver, man, you are really wearing me out. You crawl everywhere, which you learned to do (rather well) within one week. You are pulling yourself up onto anything within reach and guiding yourself along said "anything." You always seem to end up in places you aren't supposed to be, playing with things you really shouldn't be playing with. These days, I’m lucky to get a brush through my hair which is not even close to the amount of “doing” that my hair requires. Speaking of, I'm glad you've got my curly hair and not your dad's feathery flow because despite boys getting a near pass in the grooming department, you still gotta do something and some days there’s just no option but copious bobby pins and a bun. Technically an option for you, but to be honest, not one I would necessarily encourage.

Also, on the dad front: I am beginning to forget what it’s like to have a fluid talk with him. One that isn’t interrupted with baby-juggling and redirection and trailing off, having forgotten what the next conversational turn was to be. Please, kid, don’t misunderstand. Usually one of us is sidetracked by your cuteness. And even when we’re not, it’s okay, because you’re a baby and you’re fun to be around most of the time and when you’re not, well… nobody’s always pleasant company. Including me. In fact, I’m probably pleasant company less often than most. But when my life is so consumed by the baby-related, I’d really kill for a start-to-finish conversation about that article about a new book by that recently deceased author I read while you were sleeping, or what I should do about my mother's failed search for life insurance or my brothers and their incessant need to not grow up? Anything other than what kind of diapers I now prefer, when you're going to have more bowel movements on the reg and what your diapers look like when we feed you solids. I swear, I used to be a reasonably interesting person.

I made no apologies this year; I made no resolutions, but as with most things, time may sort that out. My hope for this year (and on and on), my 28th, is that I'll reclaim a little of my adultness. Adultness that may never have been fully realized to begin with. Reading and writing will start again, I will have time and hands enough to keep a tidy house. Maybe. I will eat breakfast again, and work. Deadlines will loom and I'll meet them. Conversations will begin and they'll end in one full breath.



You are the burden of my generation
I sure do love you, but let’s get that straight.

(Paul Simon lovingly quoted with abandon and no permission)