Sweet Baby – Week 20

Me: He’s doing it again.
Him: What.
Me: Grabbing at his head.
Him: Grabbing… oh!
Me: Yes.
Him: No!
Me: Yes.

For a couple of weeks at a time, Trombone’s incoming teeth don’t seem to both him much. Then, for a couple of days at a time, he is very unhappy, very drooly and grabs at his head a lot. Thankfully, as of me writing these words, the latest “couple of days” seems to be abating. I am knocking wood and even if you can’t see me, it still counts.

Holy cow: 20 weeks! That’s almost 5 months! And in 5 months, I have never smelled anything (not including my years taking the #3 Main bus) like the farts he farted this afternoon. How can something so small and adorable stink up an entire store at the mall? And how can I say to the shop clerk, “No, it was him, really!”

This week, Trombone spent a few days not going to sleep at his bedtime and spending the time between his bedtime (our version) and his preferred bedtime – a difference of two hours – kicking his feet. That’s all. Kicking his feet. Sure, you could hold him, rock him, nurse him, walk around with him, put him on the floor or put him in his crib (but don’t leave the room) but he was going to kick his feet. For 2 hours.

Why, you say, would you not then spend the 2 hours doing something pleasant, like eating ice cream or watching a movie, rather than spending 2 hours trying to get a baby to sleep who would rather kick his feet? Because, I say, the kid was tired 3 hours ago and is now venturing into warp-speed-freakout territory. And also? Because I said so.

Ha, that felt good. I’m a MOM.

Anyway, it didn’t work. Any of it. The only thing that worked was if it became 2 hours later and he’d kicked his feet to his heart’s content.

Also exciting: he’ll play peek-a-boo (as long as you’re the one who’s hiding), he understands the give and take of the game where you go “uhhhhh!” and he goes “hahahahaha!” and then you give him a kiss. He crumpled his first book page (Richard Scarry’s “Busy Busy Town”) and licked his first cookie batter from a wooden spoon. Sweet, sweet domesticity.

Just KIDDING! It’s just an old, smooth, splinter-free wooden spoon. He can hold it himself and chew the crap out of it. And drool all over it. And when he gets older, chase the catt with it. And then? I’ll be able to go out for pie and leave the two of them to figure out who rules the roost. Awesome.