The Fussbudget Month 2
Friday, July 28, 2006
I’ve found my new writing hour to you my sweet. Early when the birds rise and no one is yet alive. In silence I sit. Coffee black and warm. In front of our window I sit and watch the words bounce off of me and spill into your legacy. The telling of you. Welcome to your second month, almost third.
We’ve terrorized you. You screamed. She put four tiny holes in you and you yelped, I cried. How could we justify the hurt? We walked it off in the NW of your Portland and took you home. 10 pounds 4 ounces and by noon you were happy as hell despite my shaken heart. You forgot the ache but I squirm at the mention of the next 4.
I find the Professor in you is alive and well. You voice your concern on the tip of every NPR topic. You look, serious and under whelmed and then you laugh hysterically. I struggle to keep up and I sense that your relationship with Henry the elephant far outweighs ours intellectually for which I am envious (Jealous of a stuffed elephant much? Yes!). You’ve discovered your throat and you scream. I come running and you want nothing more than my laugh. Your smile is wide and is never fails to take breath. Vaccine Shmackcine, and we revolve.
You throw up your arms and coo. The revolution is here and you are ready to fight. We dance every day. You pull yourself up and rollover and still you decline the Baby Bach. The Mozart suits you and the White Stripes excite you, but Chris Isaac has your heart. If it’s possible, I think you might have your first crush.
You take bath time very seriously. In the water you explode with bits of laughter and I know that one day, some day I will have to forcibly remove you from it.
I resigned from my job in order to stay home with you, for you. On the couch we sat, your Dad asked you if I should go to work on Monday and you frowned. I asked you if you’d like to play Foot phone ABC and you squeled with delight. Did, dead, done, I resigned.
You met Liam. You looked over him in question. I can’t wait to see you realize him.
Each day, every day, in awe we sit. Revoloution.
Love, Mom
We’ve terrorized you. You screamed. She put four tiny holes in you and you yelped, I cried. How could we justify the hurt? We walked it off in the NW of your Portland and took you home. 10 pounds 4 ounces and by noon you were happy as hell despite my shaken heart. You forgot the ache but I squirm at the mention of the next 4.
I find the Professor in you is alive and well. You voice your concern on the tip of every NPR topic. You look, serious and under whelmed and then you laugh hysterically. I struggle to keep up and I sense that your relationship with Henry the elephant far outweighs ours intellectually for which I am envious (Jealous of a stuffed elephant much? Yes!). You’ve discovered your throat and you scream. I come running and you want nothing more than my laugh. Your smile is wide and is never fails to take breath. Vaccine Shmackcine, and we revolve.
You throw up your arms and coo. The revolution is here and you are ready to fight. We dance every day. You pull yourself up and rollover and still you decline the Baby Bach. The Mozart suits you and the White Stripes excite you, but Chris Isaac has your heart. If it’s possible, I think you might have your first crush.
You take bath time very seriously. In the water you explode with bits of laughter and I know that one day, some day I will have to forcibly remove you from it.
I resigned from my job in order to stay home with you, for you. On the couch we sat, your Dad asked you if I should go to work on Monday and you frowned. I asked you if you’d like to play Foot phone ABC and you squeled with delight. Did, dead, done, I resigned.
You met Liam. You looked over him in question. I can’t wait to see you realize him.
Each day, every day, in awe we sit. Revoloution.
Love, Mom
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