04.08.09 :: 8:09 am


Dear Oliver,

Today you turned 9 months old. If this entry is a little weird and disjointed, I apologize profusely but I have a really good excuse. You haven’t been sleeping well again at night.
Wait let me rephrase that: your sleep has gone to absolute poo, the likes of which we haven’t seen since you were a few weeks old and I wanted to sell you to the gypsies, remember?
Well, now I want to just leave you outside on the curb with the recycling.

Apparently, this horrific and debilitating turn of events is due to something called “the 9 month sleep regression” and I swear if I had been informed of this before deciding to get pregnant, I would not have gotten pregnant.
Oh, yeah it’s that bad.

I guess the few months we had of you sleeping 11 hours straight was not meant to be.

Last night was by far the worst night ever. You screamed shrilly and blood curdling-ly for two hours solid. Nothing your dad nor I could do would console you. I’m surprised the upstairs neighbors didn’t call the police.

So yeah, you’ve got two bottom teeth and more coming in, and your tired brain is working on getting you coordinated enough to walk, you’ve mastered crawling, and you’re growing at an alarming rate which in turn makes you hungrier than you’ve ever been so I suppose you have good reason to never get any rest.

I feel bad for you, kiddo, but I feel worse for myself and your Dad. We can’t keep these hours for much longer. We’re old people!

But like we always say, “Good thing we make ‘em cute.”

You are all over the place this month with the non-stop moving. I have to block sections of the apartment off so you don’t get into drawers (which you’ve mastered no sweat) or drown in the toilet.
Other than basic baby proofing, we’re letting you cruise around and discover things around you.

You pull yourself up in your crib now, and peer over the top and when we come get you you’re standing there grinning like “Look what I did!” and I want to scoop you up and eat you. This is how adorable you are.

We’re going to the park and the playground quite regularly and you don’t freak out at the sight of other babies or children – in fact, you seek them out and even though you can’t walk yet, you make me walk you over to them so you can see what they’re doing and if they’ll let you in on it.
It’s pretty amazing.

Oh I don’t have to tell you that you are in love with swings. You can swing all day. It is your happy place.
In fact, maybe we’ll take you to the swings during your 2 AM tantrums and let you sleep there since you love them so much.

Problem solved!

You got some new shoes this month, too. Real ones, not little sissy crib shoes; those are for babies, man. You’re a BIG BOY and you wear big boy shoes. Adidas shell-toes, no less. Old skool stylin’.

Oliver, you are such a happy boy, sleep issues notwithstanding. You are constantly laughing and smiling. And you’ve begun to do the most amazing thing: share your things with the dog.
She’s thrilled about the teething biscuits, less so about your rattles and pacifiers, but it’s absolutely incredible to watch. You take a bite, and you offer some to her, whatever it is.

It gets me where I live.

Your personality is coming out more and more. You are infinitely curious about everything around you and you must touch everything around you, all at once. If you could master touching and putting everything you see in your mouth at the same time, I think you’d reach nirvana.

You are also really funny, dude. I mean really honestly funny. You crack me up and you KNOW how to crack me up.

It’s been a very exhausting month. We’re in the throes of this godawful sleepless phase and I literally pray for sweet death every night.
But somehow, somehow, little taterbucket, you are capable of pulling me out of this despair by gently patting my face and butting my head with yours and smiling at me through puffy tear-soaked eyes as if to say you know it sucks and you wish it would pass quickly too.

This can only bring us closer.


Love,
Mama


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