Monthly Update: 18

To My Darling Foster,

This week you turned 18 months old.  That's right, E-I-G-H-T-E-E-N months.  A year and a half.  A full fledged toddler.  Not a baby no mo.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, time has flown by!  Seriously.  There's something about having a baby that accelerates life, and I'm having trouble keeping up.  Wait.  Did I just say that?  I'm Mommio Andretti, for crying out loud.

I don't know exactly how big you are, but boy have you grown!  When I hold you, your cheek rests against mine and your knees hit my waist.  I try not to spoil you by holding you every time you ask, but I'm sure I hold you more often than my parents would think is appropriate.  It's just that I can't get enough of your chubby, soft, cool skin against my own.

Last night, right before I put you to bed, I was standing at your crib, holding you, singing to you, and rubbing your back.  And, guess what you were doing?  Not squirming.  Not talking.  But, ever so gently rubbing my back in return.  I lingered just a little longer before laying you down and peered over my shoulder in order to get a glimpse of your sweet, plump, little hand moving back and forth in time, imitating my affections toward you. 

Be still my heart.

Your obsession with music continues, but now you dance whenever you get the chance.  And by dance I mean run in place and then swing your arms from side to side.  Let's just hope that your mad dance skills improve as you get older and that you don't inherit your father's dancing genes.  That man cannot dance. 

Don't get me wrong, he's got rhythm.  He writes music, plays guitar, tinkers with the piano, and sings like an angel, but he CANNOT dance.  When he dances, he snaps.  His fingers.  That's right, he simultaneously snaps his fingers while he dances.  Got the mental picture yet?  It cracks me up every time, but I don't think he even realizes he's doing it until I point it out.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, your hair is growing like crazy and is redder than we thought.  Also, you now have a freckle or two on your nose.

Sorry about that.  You know, the fact that you're a red headed freckle face. 

I was a red head at birth and I'm still a freckle face.  Your dad is neither.  His beard grows in red, but that doesn't count.  And, he doesn't have any freckles on his face.

Everyone comments on your hair.  Some people even touch it.  It's like they've never seen a red head before.  Even your grandparents who see you a few times a week can't get over your hair.  No one can believe that your father and I have a red headed child.  And, everyone asks where you got it from.

I always want to correct their grammar, "you mean, from whom did he inherit his red hair?"  But, I refrain, because I'm cool like that.

I mean, I could be a jerk and tell them that you're adopted.  That'd make 'em feel bad.  But, what can I say?  I'm a proud mama, so instead I smile and say that it runs on both sides of the family, er, your family.

So, when anyone everyone asks you about your red hair, here's the deal...

My hair was red at birth.  My great grandmother had red hair.  Your dad's great grandmother had red hair.  Your dad's brother has red hair.  And, your dad's beard is red (or was, depending on when you're reading this.)  (I'm sure it'll be white one day.)  (Oh wait, there are already a few white whiskers in there from time to time.  Ha!)

Point is, you inherited your red hair from both sides of your family.  You get it honestly, and while I don't notice it day in and day out, everyone else does.  The funny thing to me is that your daddy and I used to always say that we could have a red head.  We just had a feeling.  I don't think anyone believed us, especially your grandpa, but here you are, my handsome little cardinal.

Speaking of, the cardinal is your favorite bird.  You love to look at pictures of cardinals and I think it might be your favorite word to say.  Surprisingly you say it very clearly, "CA-DIN-A".

Your vocabulary continues to expand and you've started to put two words together...Light on.  Light off.  Fan off.  Fan on.  TV on.  TV off.  Wax on.  Wax off. 

No, just kidding about the wax part, Foster-san.

Sometimes you channel your Latino side and put the noun before the adjective...Truck big.  Thunder loud. Coffee hot.

Si, muy bien, Foster.

Either way, I usually know what you're talking about.  Your daddy does too, but your grandma and grandpa don't always understand and that leads to some frustration your part.

Besides the increasing frustration, which leads to occasional tantrums, we've been dealing with eight teeth coming in at once.  Your four eye teeth and your first four molars.  Hey, ya think you're getting EIGHT TEETH to celebrate EIGHTEEN months?  Nah.  I'm just a sucker for a good play on words.

Anyway, poor Bear-Bear has become a chew toy, and a handkerchief for your runny nose.  YUCK!

Saliva + snot = Bear-Bear stinks!  As do your feet when you wear a certain pair of hand-me-down sandals.  Your daddy calls it "some other kid's funk"  and I agree.  We've had a few good laughs over your stinky feet, but have decided to retire those particular shoes.  Shoo wee!

It's been hot as hades here this summer, so we've been cooped up inside.  It's a shame, too, because you love to be outside; in the yard or on the playground.

On the weekends we go to the lake or pool to cool off and you love it!  The only problem is your fair skin.  We have to work at keeping you protected from the sun.  I don't think I could handle the guilt if you got sunburned.  And I dread the day that you're in the sun without me to smother you in sunblock.  I'm sure there's a bad sunburn in your teenage, I KNOW IT ALL, future, but for now, it's my job to protect you and that I will do.

xoxo,

Mama

A life without love is like a year without summer. ~ Swedish Proverb

Monthly Update: 17

Dear Foster,

Today you are 17 months old, and yes, sigh, I skipped a month.  Let's just pretend that you were never 16 months old, okay?  Except, wait, that was a really fun month!  So much fun, in fact, that I did not have any time to write this newsletter.

We vacationed in Perdido Key, Florida, just missing the oil there, and then hosted guests for three weeks straight.  Somehow during all that wonderful chaos, you became a little boy. 

You went from wearing Robeez to Stride Rite.  From Gerber 'Lil Crunchies to Goldfish.

You learned how to climb on and off of the couch, get on and off your little four wheeler, and you're eerily close to being able to turn a doorknob.

For heaven's sake, SLOW DOWN!  You're growing up way too fast.  Naming letters of the alphabet one minute and unlocking my cell phone in order to call your daddy the next.

Lately you've been sleeping twelve hours a night, which makes up for the fact that you've kinda sorta sometimes maybe dropped a nap.  Problem is, it's the wrong nap.

Toddlers are supposed to take an afternoon nap, but not you.  No, you're so exhausted from SLEEPING 12 HOURS STRAIGHT, that you have to take a morning nap.  Of course, all that sleep means that you're not sleepy in the afternoon.  Tired, yes.  Sleepy, no.

I've tried in vain to keep you awake in the morning.  To put you down after lunch, but all that does is guarantee that you'll take a short nap and then act like a sleep deprived little turd for the rest of the day.  Not fun.  Not to mention, I hate keeping you awake when you're sleepy.  It just feels wrong.

This month you've started being even more adorable than you already were.  There's the kisses, of course, but recently you've started to play with my hair as I cart you around on my hip. 

Did you know that I love having my hair played with?  That's the one reason I'd like to have a little girl someday...someone to play with my hair!  (Just kidding.)  (Sort of.)

I'm not sure which sign of affection I like more, the kissing or the hair playing, but the love I feel for you is so strong, I often wonder how I could ever love another child as much.  I mean, just look at poor Lucky.  He was our firstborn.  Our baby.  I felt the same way about him when I was pregnant with you.  But, the moment you were born, he became a dog.

You're really easy to love, though.  You're cute, smart, and funny.  What's not to love?

Speaking of love, you LOVE your grandma.  BA-BOO-WA is what you call her.  None of us can figure out how "grandma" became BA-BOO-WA, but you say her name about a hundred times a day.  I jokingly refer to her as Barbara now.  Her name is Carolyn.  Isn't that funny, or is it just me?  (I crack myself up!)

Anyway, you love your grandma and she loves you.  Your daddy and I are very thankful to have her and your grandpa so close.  Let's face it, we have no idea what we're doing in the Parenting Department so we need all the help we can get!

Music is your newest fascination.  You love it.  You've always liked it, but it has even replaced belly buttons, and now instead of asking to see my belly button all day, you're asking for music all day.

I had hoped to avoid "kids music" because is there anything more annoying?  But, your BA-BOO-WA gave us a kid's songs CD to take on our trip to Florida in case you got fussy in the car.  And fussy you got.

For some reason you refuse to sleep in the car.  I guess you're afraid of missing a Jeep or two (you point out EVERY Jeep on the road).  Or, maybe you're afraid of missing out on a road trip snack (i.e., JUNK FOOD).  Either way, that CD is the only thing that got us through the eight hour drive to the beach.

We actually had a lot of fun singing those songs to you.  Doing the hand motions.  Making you laugh.  But now that we're home, we'd like to move on to more sophisticated music, if you don't mind.

I've tried to introduce you to Jewel and Elvis (how's that for sophisticated? Ha!), but the whole time those CDs are on, you're in the back seat saying, "music, music, music..."  As if.  Foster, that IS music!

So, here we go looby loo, on to your eighteenth month and I'm looking forward to more singing, much dancing, and as always, multitudes of laughing.

Music is love in search of a word. ~Sidney Lanier

xoxo,

Mama

Monthly Update: 15

Dear Foster,

Today is my 32nd birthday.  I'm officially in my thirties.  A thirty-something, that's me.

You, however, are only 15 months old, and if it was possible for you to become sweeter, you have.
This month you learned how to give and blow kisses, and you give both with a distinct "mmm-wa!"

You kiss me, your daddy, the pets, your toys, anything and everything.  And, you blow kisses to everyone.  Sometimes you miss your mouth and mmm-wa your forehead or your ear, but I think most people understand.  You're just spreadin' the love, man.

This month I've had the pleasure of rocking you to sleep a few times, an unexpected delight.

Once you were old enough to soothe yourself to sleep, you preferred to do just that.  No rocking for you, thank you very much.

It was hard for me, because I wanted to rock you, but independent sleeping was a skill I wanted you to learn, so reluctantly, I gave in.

But one morning last week when you woke up at 5:45, after letting you fuss for 15 minutes, I thought I'd go in and try to rock you back to sleep.  Normally you'd wiggle your way out of my arms and start the day, but this time, this time, you fell asleep on my chest, and I slept too.

Your daddy came in at 7:15 to make sure we were both awake.  We were.  Your head resting on my shoulder.  Your eyes open.  Just enjoying each other's company in the quiet of the morning.  It was lovely.  Thank you for that.

The California Rileys came for three weeks this month and that means we've been spending most of our time at your grandparents' house.  And by that I mean we've been eating, eating and eating.  I swear I've gained ten pounds.  (Okay, maybe not ten, but at least three!)

During their visit you discovered the joy of ice cream as we celebrated four April birthdays.  And now we have to spell I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M, if  you're within earshot.

I love that you love ice cream, though, because it gives me an excuse to eat dessert too!  Your daddy is a killjoy when it comes to sweets.  He just doesn't care for them.  (I know, right?)  And, he doesn't understand why I can't live without them.  Isn't he sweet enough? 

Um, no.  No he is not.  But, you are.  My sweet, sweet child who loves sweets and will eat them with me. 

Finally, I win.

Peyton and Savannah became your favorite cousins while they were here and I'm pretty sure Steve is now your favorite uncle.  Although, they've gone back home, and at this stage in your life, it's out of sight, out of mind.

It doesn't take you long to learn people's names. You must have said "Steve", "Peyton" and "Savannah" a million times while they were here.

They'd walk into a room and you'd point and name. They'd leave the room and you'd call their name and follow. I think it's your way of showing love. Naming.

Hey, is that a love language? You know, instead of Words of Affirmation, Words of Information?

As soon as you wake up in the morning, you start pointing and naming.  "Lucky, fan, light, Bear-Bear, Mama, Dada, toothbrush, globe, fish, door, etc..."  Your daddy and I wait in anticipation at what you're going to point to and name next.  It's your little ritual and it cracks us up every time.

Your Papa and Nonni surprised us with a visit this month and since it had been six months since you'd seen them, we weren't sure how you'd receive them.  But, you were Mr. Congeniality, as usual. 

You wasted no time in asking them to show you their belly buttons.

Belly buttons are your newest fascination and you must ask to see mine a hundred times a day.  Not because mine's spectacular or anything, but simply because that's what you do. 

You're like a dog who has to sniff the other dog's nether regions before becoming friends (or enemies).  Except your body part of choice is a much cleaner, less stinkier one.  And, you don't sniff of course, you just stick your finger in.  Your daddy and I giggle like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, because well, that's what you do when someone sticks a finger in your belly button.  It's automatic.  You have no choice.

This activity happens countless times a day, even in the middle of the night.

Last night you woke up and when rocking didn't soothe you, I checked your diaper.  Sure enough it was soaked.  So as you're lying on the changing table in the dim light, you start saying "belly button, belly button, belly button". 

Seriously Foster, in the middle of the night? 

I had no choice but to show you my belly button before putting you back to bed.  I wonder if you dreamt about my belly button.  If so, I hope I had rock hard abs, not a six pack, that's too masculine, but flat and firm would be nice.

You have trouble finding your belly button, what with your pot belly and all, so I have to stick my finger in yours in order to point it out to you.   And, you often get your belly button confused with another curious body part. 

I hope by the time you're reading this you've figured that one out.

Last weekend, the first of May, was May Day, but here in Nashville, it was more like "mayday, mayday!"

We endured the Flood of 2010, what's now being called a thousand year flood.  My heart aches for those who have lost their homes, their belongings, and heaven forbid, their loved ones.  I'm afraid I don't have the words to express my condolences to those folks.

We had no damage, just a wet basement, and we owe our thanks to your daddy who siphoned the water out with a garden hose for two days.  I cannot begin to tell you how hard he worked.  That man is my hero.

Afterward he said, "it's a good thing I have a lot of hose."

One day you'll get that joke.

In the meantime, I thank God for you and your daddy, and I pray that we continue to laugh our way through these years.  You're certainly helping with that!

Here's to the rest of my thirties...they've been great so far!

xoxo,

Mama

Monthly Update: 14

Dear Foster,

Yep, I'm late with this letter again.  My apologies.  Looks like I've fallen off the mommy-blogging wagon.

Not that I was ever really on it.  I'm not sure that writing you a monthly update really counts.  But, I digress...

You turned 14 months old on March 21st, and this month, I can't think of a good excuse as to why this letter is late.  I mean, we've been busy, don't get me wrong, YOU keep me busy, but as far as a specific reason, I'm at a loss.

Maybe it's because you're walking now and all I do ALL DAY LONG is watch you like a hawk and say things like; "Watch your step!", "Be careful!", and "Slow down!"

Or, maybe it's because you're weaned now and all I do ALL DAY LONG is feed you.  I swear, it seems like you eat every hour, on the hour.  (Wait, who am I kidding?  I eat every hour too!)

You really do love to eat, and you've recently discovered the joy of using a spoon.  You're not proficient yet, but you do quite well with hand over hand assistance.

Come to think of it, maybe this letter is late because I went out of town earlier this month for 3 days and it took you a full week to recover from the abandonment.  Seriously, you whined and fussed and cried for a week after I returned.

Your motive?  To be held, I think.  So, what did I do?  I held you and kissed you and squeezed you and then smothered you in mayonnaise and ate you up!

Then again, maybe this letter is late because we're all sleepy heads up in here.  I don't know why, but you've been sleeping in 'til 7:00 or so.  That's twelve hours a night, buddy!  Plus two naps during the day!  Granted, I haven't been napping when you nap, but apparently I haven't been writing this letter either.

Nope, no naps for me.  Instead I make the bed, wash the dishes, fold the laundry, prepare your hundredth snack of the day, work out, wash my face, brush my teeth, return phone calls, and sometimes...sometimes I get online and relax with a cup of coffee.  Because when you wake up, it's all systems go!

Foster, you are busy with a capital 'B'!  But, such a pleasure.  Sure, some days are harder than others and on those days, as soon as your daddy walks through the door, I toss you into his arms like a hot potato!

Those are the days that I have had it up to here with the fussing.  And, my guess is that you've had it up to there with my not understanding what you're trying to say.

Sometimes when you're saying something that I don't understand, you'll start to fidget with your hands, as if you're fumbling for the sign to use.  It's so sweet, but so sad.  You know that if you use a sign, I usually understand what you're saying, so you're trying your hardest to get it through my thick skull.  I'm sorry, buddy, and I'm doing my best to teach you every sign I can think of.  Bear with me.

Other days, however, are simply delightful and we spend time outside with the birds and the rocks and the leaves and the sticks and the pine cones and the flowers..."wa-wer" is how you say flower.  It's adorable, I tell ya.  Adorable.

Your favorite thing to do is go for strolls around our neighborhood.  In fact, you try to say "stroller" and "walk"...just two of your over fifty words.  Sometimes, though, we just can't go for a walk right now and when I explain that to you, you throw a little "snitzy".  That's what your grandma calls a temper tantrum.  I just ignore it and before you know it, the snitzy is over and I'm able to distract you with something else.

Meanwhile, your attachment to Bear-Bear is waning and we're able to function without him.  You are funny, though, because you quickly get attached to one thing or another and have to carry it around with you AT ALL TIMES. 

This week, for example, it's been a flashlight, lint roller, key and tampon.  Yes, I just said tampon.  You think they're awesome!  I caught you with your arm through the box and every single one of them scattered all over the floor.  You were having a blast and I've quickly learned that if it can't hurt you, it's worth the mess! 

You don't carry those items around all at once, of course, but sometimes you do carry two at a time.

That's how you play.  You don't just sit and play with a toy.  No, instead you pick up a toy (or two) and walk around the house with it.  Telling me what it is.  Banging it on the table, the door, the floor.  I can't imagine how many calories you burn in a day.

I hope you grow out of this attachment phase within the next six months, though, because we've decided to enroll you in a Mother's Day Out preschool program this fall and they don't allow you to bring your own toys unless it's for Show n' Tell.  I'm sure they'd be thrilled with you showing and telling the class all about your mama's tampons!

You'll be 20 months old by then and I think you'll really enjoy it.  You're already at the point where we have to get out of the house at least once a day, preferably twice.

Publix is one of your favorite places to go.  You sit in one of those carts shaped like a car, facing away from me, with a hand on each wheel (sometimes a hand on one wheel and a foot on the other!)  and drive through the store.  All the while shouting "car!" at every other shopper.  When we're all done, the cashier and bagger tell you bye, and you yell back, "bye-bye!"  I expect you all to be on a first name basis pretty soon.

Yesterday the weather here in Nashville was so wonderful that we went to the park THREE times!  You are the funniest kid there.  Walking around, pointing at the other kids and yelling, "baby!, baby!, baby!"

Foster, YOU'RE a baby!  Even if you do know how to turn the TV off and on!

Today is your daddy's and my sixth wedding anniversary.  Yes, we waited a while to have you.

We always knew we wanted children, but we wanted time to ourselves first.  Time to travel, time to work on our historic home, time to sleep in, and time to dream.

We had lots of dreams about you, but we never imagined you would be as wonderful as you are.  Our red headed little boy.  Equal parts sweet and sassy.  Rough and tumble.  Smart and sensitive.  I like to think you inherited the best parts of each of us.

May the next six years be full of happy memories for you.  May our marriage be all that it can be, so that your childhood is all that it should be.

xoxo,

Mama

"The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family." ~Thomas Jefferson

Monthly Update: 13

Dear Foster,

You turned 13 months old on the 21st, but I am just now getting around to writing this letter to you. Sorry about that, but you and I have both been sick for nearly three weeks.

It started with you having a cold and progressed into both of us getting sinus infections and pink eye in BOTH eyes! We were both so sick that your daddy had to stay home from work for two days to help take care of us.

As if the infections themselves weren't bad enough, you developed an allergic reaction to the antibiotic and had to be taken off of it early. It's just as well, though, because we think it was a virus to begin with, and prefer not to have you on antibiotics anyway.

Despite this helluva few weeks, you are still such a delight. A talking, walking ball of energy.

I'm keeping track of all of the words you say (or TRY to say) and believe it or not, there are 39! That number doesn't even include the two word phrase you say all day long, "Da go?", as in, "Where'd daddy go?", or the baby signs you use.

I started saying "Where'd daddy go?" when we were all home together and he would leave the room to go get one thing or another. You caught on very quickly and started asking me, where in the heck has he gone this time?!

So now, all day long, while he's at work, you ask, "Da go?" And, all day long, while he's at work, I reply, "Daddy's at work."

This month I started to wean you, and boy has that been hard! For me, anyway.


You have handled it well, so far, but I can tell that the morning feeding is going to be hard to break. Of course, you've been sick, so we're not even trying, but just a glimpse of the sippy cup in your room first thing in the morning sends you over the edge. And by "over the edge" I mean, TEMPER TANTRUM!

I don't get it, you're one, not two, so what's with the temper, mister?

Distraction works wonders for you, so as you tailspin into a frenzy because you saw the sippy cup, or because the circle won't fit into the square hole, or because I don't understand what you're trying to say, I just whisk you up and take you to the window to look at all the birds, cars & trucks. And, whew, tantrum over.

Yes, you read that right, birds. You LOVE birds, and that is one of the other things you talk about ALL DAY LONG. I open the curtains in your room after each nap and "bird" is the first word out of your mouth. We spend a lot of time looking out the windows at the birds in our yard and trust me, there are a lot to look at. What, with our gigantic bird bath and all!

When you were 4 months old or so, we introduced you to Lovey Bear, a little lovey that some friends gave you when you were a newborn.

You had been swaddled up to that point, but once we stopped swaddling you, you needed something to do with your hands. Something to hold. Lovey Bear was the perfect fit. You held Lovey Bear when you slept and eventually began to suck and chew on him. He was your roommate, but that's as far as the attachment went.

NOT ANYMORE! Lovey Bear, who you have affectionately named, Bear-Bear, has become your right hand man and you don't let him out of your sight.

He sleeps with you, eats with you, plays with you, rides with you, and walks with you. If I forget to grab Bear-Bear, you eventually realize it and ask, "Bear-Bear?". I've tried to distract you, but you don't forget, and on more than one occasion I've had to take you out of your highchair in the middle of a meal to go get Bear-Bear.

It's very sweet, your attachment to Bear-Bear, but it's also sad for me because it seems to be getting stronger with every feeding you're weaned from. Is Bear-Bear replacing me?

I had no idea that weaning you would be so hard for me. It's not like it's a physical attachment. I mean, I don't even feel anything when you're nursing. It's purely emotional and I'm not sure I have words to describe it. Maybe I should join some kind of support group or go to rehab. Is there a twelve step program I can go through? "Hi, my name is Aron and I'm so sad to be weaning my baby."

You are officially walking now and when you walk, you say, "walk, walk, walk..." You're our little narrator.

Yes Foster, you're walking. Yep, that's a bird. You're right, that's Bear-Bear, there's Dada and I'm Mama. Oh, yeah, that's a light and there's the dog. Yes, the dog is barking. I hear the truck too. And the airplane. And the choo-choo train...

Your favorite book is a book about football and you request it every time we read. "Football, football, football..." You love football! Not just the book, but the actual ball and anything having to do with FSU.

Your daddy and I have lots of FSU shirts and every time we wear one you say "football" until we sing the FSU Fight Song. You even pump your arm at the end!

F-L-O-R-I-D-A-S-T-A-T-E! FLORIDA STATE, FLORIDA STATE, FLORIDA STATE, WOO!

Maybe one day you'll play football for FSU. And then for the NFL. And then you'll buy your daddy and I a house, and take care of us in our old age.

Until then, here's hoping for a healthy month ahead and as few falls as possible as you continue to walk, walk, walk...

xoxo,

Mama

Monthly Update: 12

Dear Foster,

Happy FIRST birthday to you!

I can hardly believe it. It seems like just yesterday I was pregnant with you. Gagging when I brushed my teeth. Eating TUMS like candy. Peeing every five minutes. Reading every pregnancy book under the sun. Reading every newborn book under the sun. And loving every minute of it.

It's true. I loved being pregnant with you. Not every symptom or side effect, but the experience. It was a blessing that I wish for every woman who desires it. And, for women who don't want it, but for whom it happens, I pray for them an availability. That they would avail themselves to the wonder that is bearing a child.

You arrived five days early, just like your daddy did. I was caught completely off guard, not expecting you until February sometime.

Yes, your due date was January 26th, but my mom (your Patty Mama) had both me and my brother (your Uncle Jonathan) late, so I assumed that I would have you late too. After all, I've been like my mother in every other "womanly" regard, so why would this be any different. (Sorry, is that too much information?) (Get used to it, my dear!)

When I was growing up, one of my favorite things was to hear my mom tell the story of my birth. I still love to hear it. There's something about hearing that story that makes me feel real. Makes me feel alive, loved, and wanted.

So, I thought I'd share your birth story here. Put it in writing so that neither of us forget.

It was a Wednesday. January 21, 2009. President Obama's first day in office.

I woke up around Four o'clock in the morning with mild back cramps. And, HOLY FREAKIN COW! Do you realize what I just wrote? Have you read my previous blogs? Hello! I just realized that your Four o'clock in the Morning habit started before you were even born! Why didn't I catch this coincidence before? What does this mean? Aagghh!

Okay, deep breath. Composure. Moving on.

I went back to bed and was awakened two hours later with contractions every ten minutes or so.
Your daddy began keeping a Log-o-Contractions (it's in your baby book) and after 8 AM we called the doctor. We were told to time the contractions and when they became consistently five minutes apart, for an hour, to come to the hospital.

We spent the next two hours packing our bags and taking deep breaths. The only way I got through the contractions was to lean over a bed and breathe deeply.

I did not want to be touched. I did not want to sit. I did not want to talk. I just wanted your daddy to time the contractions. Which he did. He was a silent saint, that man, and by 10 AM we were on our way to the hospital.

When we got there, the staff offered me a wheelchair, but I refused. Sitting was not comfortable. Instead, I walked all the way to my room. Pausing for each contraction. Gripping the wall handrail. By this time, of course, my contractions were less than five minutes apart.

I wanted to stand. I wanted to pace. I wanted to lean over the hospital bed. But, the nurse wanted me to lay in bed. With monitors on. One for you and one for me. I kept getting up to get through the contractions and she kept coming in to lay me back down.


Poor nurse, she couldn't get a clear reading of your heart rate with all the LABORING I was doing! Suffice it to say, she was not my favorite.

Around noon the doctor arrived and broke my water to help speed things along. The amount of fluid that came out of me is appalling. I must have lost twenty of the thirty pounds I had gained, right then. Soon after, I got an epidural.

I was never sure that I wanted an epidural, but after my water was broken, the contractions became fast and furious. They were so close together that I could barely catch my breath. Never mind trying to focus on a breathing technique!

The pain was horrible, but bearable. It was the frequency of the contractions that I just couldn't keep up with...especially having to stay in bed because of those bleepin monitors.

When I asked the nurse (the one who wasn't my favorite) if I should go ahead and get an epidural or wait and see, she replied, "Honey, it's only gonna get worse."

The epidural kicked in about noon and it was smooth sailing from there. Your daddy and I called family. We called friends. We watched Oprah. We ate ice chips. And, finally, at 6 PM, I began to push.

When the doctor said it was time to push, I started to cry. I just didn't feel ready to meet you.

You had been my constant companion for 9 months, but you were still a dream, an idea. Now, you would be YOU and I wasn't sure I was prepared to meet YOU.

I had to get over that craziness real quick because, well, because you were coming and I had no choice!

On my first push the doctor said it was the "best first push" she'd ever seen, and I believed her. From that moment on I pushed like no other woman has ever pushed. Ever.

I pushed and vomited. Pushed and vomited.

Finally, less than an hour later, you popped out. I swear, you were the cutest thing I'd ever seen. I even said so. The FIRST thing I said when I saw you was "he's so cute!"

Honestly, Foster, I wasn't sure if you'd be cute or not. I have a good eye for cute babies and trust me, not all babies are cute. I'm not just talking about newborns here. I'm talking about babies, kids, children, people. We're not all cute. Can I get an amen? Amen.

After all was said and done, and your daddy and I were alone, I asked him if he heard the doctor tell me that THAT was the best first push she had ever seen. He replied, "I'm sure she tells all her patients that."

Um, EXCUSE ME! Are you kidding me? I just gave birth to your firstborn son and you're going to sit here and tell me that my doctor lied to me? And, not only that! You're going to imply that I was not the BEST FIRST PUSHER EVER? Heaven help me! If I wasn't numb from the waist down, I would come off this bed and show you just what a good pusher I am!

Foster, I wish you could remember that day, this day, this past year. A year of firsts. Firsts for both of us. But, since you can't, I want you to know that this has been the best year of my life, and it was so nice to finally meet YOU. The pleasure was all mine.

xoxo,

Mama (aka The Best First Pusher Ever!)

Monthly Update: 11

Dear Foster,

Today you are 11 months old.

This month has flown by! We traveled to Florida for Thanksgiving and then spent these last few weeks getting ready for Christmas.

Your first Christmas is four days away. Holy cow!

We actually had the tree up before Thanksgiving. Your daddy was excited to get this party started, so to speak, and boy have you had fun with that tree!

There are no longer any decorations on the lower half. It didn't take long for you to figure out that those GLASS balls and cute little decorations come off! So each time you were able to reach one, we relocated it to a higher position. Now you simply tug on the lights, the whole time shaking your head "no". You know it's a no-no, but you do it anyway.

As your grandma would say, "You little imp!"

Meanwhile, you have started to stand independently. Granted, it's only for a few seconds at a time, but I believe that I have had several heart attacks watching you rise from sitting to standing all by yourself. Two such occasions occurred in the bathtub! I mean, really. Really? Are you trying to kill me? Porcelain tub, wet water, slippery soap suds, your little fragile head, need I go on? [Insert deep breath here...]

Oh, and while I take a deep breath, let me tell you about how you imitate me taking a deep breath! I never realized how often I do that until you started copying me. But, it's refreshing, isn't it? Calms the nervous system.

Lucky has become your favorite pet. You still like the cats, but the dog? He has become king! "Ga-ga, ga-ga, ga-ga!"

You love it when he licks your fingers while you're sitting in the high chair. He has only one motive, you see, but you think it's all about you, and you laugh and laugh and laugh.

This month you have learned how to fuss. I thought about starting this post with, "Dear Fusster", but that wouldn't be fair. It's not like you fuss all day, just most of it.

Oh, that's not what you want to eat? What can I get for you, your highness? Oh, you don't want to eat. You want to play. Fine, play. And, while you play I'll make a phone call. Oh, no? I'm not allowed to make a phone call? What's that you say? You want me to sit right here and play with you? Okay, I see. I must sit right here and play with you. Or at least watch you play. Or at least pretend I'm watching. But, whatever I do, I am not allowed to get on the phone. Or wash dishes. Or check email. Or eat. Because...wait, what's that? You want to eat now? Oh, I see, you want what I'm having. [Insert deep breath here...]

When we returned from Florida we began the "cry it out" thing to try and wean you from your Four o'clock in the Morning feeding. Thankfully, it worked. I think it took about three days. But, but! Now you're stuck on 5:30 AM.

What is it with you and waking at the (butt) crack of dawn?

So, now we let you fuss until 6:00 AM. We figure that Six o'clock in the Morning is an acceptable time to rise and shine. 6:30 would be better, but we don't want to press our luck.

At 6:00 AM I stumble into your room to nurse you and when you're finished we go back to my (and your daddy's) bed. It would be lovely if you would lay down and cuddle with us, but instead you climb us and the headboard. You romp and laugh. You point out all the snow flakes on our flannel sheets. You grab our noses and scrape our teeth. You do all of this until you're at the end of your rope, and threatening to jump off the bed if we don't put you down on the floor already! Then, your daddy takes you back into your room to change your diaper, and our day officially begins.

Two things that narrative brought to mind...

One, you can point to my (or any adult's) nose, ears, eyes, and teeth now. You say GA for nose, I for eye, and TH for teeth.

Second, you do not cooperate during diaper changes anymore. Where'd my sweet baby go? Oh, I'm just kidding. You're still very sweet, but diaper changes have become an Olympic sport up in here.

I try to distract you with a toy first. When that doesn't work we move to personal hygiene items (i.e., comb, diaper rash creme, etc...), and when that fails we resort to hazardous materials (i.e., knives, matches, etc...). No, not really. Sometimes, though, we give up and let you romp around naked for a little while.

Like after your bath when we're trying to get your diaper and your pajamas on. We call it your "freak out" time, because you literally go a little crazy with your naked self.

You pull the pillow off the rocker and throw it around. Then you throw yourself on it. Then you remember that you have toys over there and so you crawl over there to get them. But then you remember that you have blankets on the other side of the room, so you leap over there to climb on those. And then you remember that you forgot to bring the pillow along with you, so you crawl as fast as you can back over there to get that pillow. And, oh my gosh! Your daddy and I just nervously giggle as we watch all of this. Usually, though, you end up hitting your head and start to cry, so we jump on the chance to cuddle and then slap a diaper and some pj's on ya. BAM! We win.

All of that to say, what a whirlwind month this has been! Goodness. Gracious. Sakes. Alive. My little baby is almost a year old and I've got to start planning your first birthday party! [Insert deep breath here...]

Merry Christmas, my dear. "I love you more than there are stars in the sky and fish in the sea." — Nicholas Sparks

xoxo,

Mama