To Paul: this is how you spent the day you turned 10 months old.
You make some noises at 6 but go back under and sleep until 7. Hooray! This is as good as it gets. Dad gives you a bottle, changes your diaper, and bustles out the door with you to go to school. You’ve been in childcare for three weeks now, and your teacher Leah reports you’ve adjusted well. I see the evidence now when I drop you off and your face does not crumple with despair.
You eat canned pears and cheerios, poop, and play. Your first nap at 9 is not a success. Much coughing and crying; you sleep for maybe 15 minutes. Your appetite is not compromised, however, and you put away enchiladas, broccoli, and oranges for lunch. You poop again.
Your afternoon is a bigger success. You sleep from 12:10-1:45, and snack on animal crackers and apples at 2. I find you at 4:30, playing happily on your mat with the interns. They fill me in on your day and we say goodbye. I buckle you into your car seat and we drive home, chatting occasionally about whatever “da da th-th-thda ” means.
At home, I sequester myself with you and Annie so you can romp freely about the room while Dad cooks us steaks for dinner. You range around, playing with your activity tables and pulling books off the shelf, and stop by to visit Annie and I in the nook. We have a conversation about biting, which you are prone to these days, seemingly in an effort to soothe your erupting gums. Annie offers you a ball to bite instead of Mom’s leg. You two play an adorable game where Annie pretends to hug you with her teddy bear, and you laugh and laugh.
Dad comes to tell us that dinner is ready, and we parade downstairs. I buckle you into your high chair and hand you a strawberry to tide you over while dinner is served. You attack all your food with gusto, particularly relishing the roasted okra.
I scrape off the worst of the food residue and carry you upstairs for a bath. Dad follows with Annie, and we sponge you off. You entertain yourself by throwing all the toys out of the tub. Dad scoops you out and dries you off. He takes your temperature before diapering because Annie has had a fever, and you’ve been coughing. 101.6, oy. We administer Tylenol. You seem pretty unconcerned, and polish off half a bottle on top of your dinner. We play with toys, read books, and cuddle, variously.
At 7:28, we call the fourth rendition of Pete the Cat the last and start the lullaby. You know the drill well now and have your thumb in your mouth as I begin to lay you down. We blow kisses, tell you we love you, and back out of the room. Night night, sweet baby.
I’d just like to note and celebrate that both (all) of our children sleep through the night, in the same room. We’re exiting the crazy little-baby years. A moment to appreciate the progress before we’re swept up in the next round of challenges.