Walking on a Dream

My baby is a baby no longer... well, he's still my baby but now he's a big, strapping one-year old boy.


I know, right, Emery? What the fuck, mama? I know, how can it be one year already?

(It feels more like five.) (Sorry, that's the sleepless nights talkin'.)

No longer the little poopin', peein', screamin', eatin' machine we brought from home. No, now you crawl! And do a zombie walk! And maneuver around like a monkey! And talk about your Dadddddeeeeeee!!! And doggies! And refuse to say Momma 'cause your have your father's rotten sense of humor!

You love Bubble Guppies, Oscar the Grouch and Hall & Oates. You get PISSED when a parent travels and gives said parent the cold shoulder a good 24 hours after his or her return. You love your big brothers and stand outside their playroom, shaking the baby gate that divides you and scream AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH. Thank you for that, it lets me know where you are.

You drink from a sippy (one design, no others mister particular), have your special vanilla-flavored hypoallergenic formula and are kinda-sorta interested in foods and rice milk, but only foods everyone else is eating - none of that jarred baby crap for you. You eat till you puke, thanks to the acid reflux. We're working on it and hope to fatten you out the 6th percentile of body weight for kids your age.

You chase the dog around not because you want to pet her, but because you want to jingle her collar. You like to sit on my hip as I make dinner and whisper "hot" as I cook. You scream at the one measly step from the kitchen to the entry room and throw everything down "to the great abyss" but you know how to climb off the couch (including throwing pillows down to cushion your landing). You love bath time and scream when we take you out of the tub and often lift bath toys along for the ride.

Happy birthday sweet, sweet Emerson. I wouldn't change a thing about you.

(But I'm totally open to more uninterrupted sleep, if you're taking requests.)