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Owen, Month Eight

Sweet Owen,

You are eight months old and a man on the move. You made your first few tentative "steps" in a full-on, tummy-up crawl position last week, and since then there is no stopping you from getting where you want to go. You still usually squirm, roll and belly flop until you reach your goal, but when the prize is good enough (a pint-sized basketball, the remote, the vacuum) you hike yourself up and crawl, really crawl.

You are a noisy little bugger these days. You squeak and chirp and squeal and babble and sing. You talk to anyone who makes eye contact, and often also to anyone who doesn't. You especially like to talk to my breasts when I am trying to feed you and will sometimes babble away so long that you forget to eat and just wander off instead. You sometimes keep going even while you are eating and I have to remind you not to talk with your mouth full. You have two distinct laughs: your normal, baby-sounding laugh, and your laugh reserved for things that are especially hilarious or when you get your hands on something you know you aren't supposed to have. The second one sounds like a pissed-off squirrel.

When asked, you can locate Mommy, Daddy, Mia and blocks. You love socks, toes, hair, balls, anything with push buttons, computers, and the bubble screen saver on Daddy's laptop. You love to stand up, either holding onto someone or clinging to a piece of furniture and can even stand unassisted for a few seconds until the wiggles get the better of you. You are turning into a daredevil and love to be thrown in the air, spun in circles, flipped upside down, and bounced bounced bounced until your bouncer collapses in exhaustion. One of your favorite things is when I hold your hands and put your feet on top of my own and "walk" you around the house.

You have six hard-won teeth and all indications are that at least two more are on the horizon. Your hair is long enough that most of it has started to lie down, and depending on the light it ranges from white to medium blond. Your eyes are the same clear blue they've been since birth, giving you a strong resemblance to any of a number of your male ancestors. There is a family war raging about who you most resemble and who, exactly, was the source of those eyes.

You love pureed green beans, which are disgusting but there is no accounting for taste. You gnawed your way through an apple slice this month as well as a couple containers of puffs and the occasional bit of cracker you found on the floor.

You were definitely a Mommy's boy this month. The combination of teething and separation anxiety combined to make Mommy's arms the only acceptable place to be. You are sometimes content to play on the floor and even, if you are quite sure that Mommy is nowhere around and therefore not an option, happy enough to play with someone else. But you have spent most of your time glued to my hip with your fingers jammed in my hair or my ear or my mouth and protesting loudly and longly if I dare remove you from your perch.

I have decided that I will no longer discuss your sleep habits with anyone other than your father and your doctor, because nobody else cares, they just want to feel superior. (Or else, I'm a little bitter.) Suffice it to say that it could be better, but also it could be worse and we are all making it through and most of the time getting nearly enough sleep, so good enough.

Baby boy, you are huge, an absolute beast. We grow 'em big, it seems. But where your sister was so fat that she could hide things in her fat rolls, you are just large and solid. Not skinny, to be sure, but not all that chubby either. Just long and thick and dense and back-breakingly heavy. And since I carry you around all day, I have you to thank for my killer biceps.

My secret squirrel, this has been a hard month on all of us. You and Mia have both been especially needy these past few weeks, and it has made all of us a little worn out and a little grumpy and a little short-tempered. I worry sometimes that you are suffering for being the second born, but when you curl up under my chin with your hand on my cheek and coo yourself to sleep, I suppose that you must be muddling through and we must be doing all right after all.

Comments (9)

I love when you write letters to your kids. They're so sweet and honest and eloquent.

I love when you write letters to your kids. They're so sweet and honest and eloquent.

So sweet.

Lovely, as the letters always are. "Secret Squirrel" - perhaps you've found a nickname for sweet Owen?

Eight months, wow! I love these letters.

Your love letters to your children are wonderful. It is such a great way to remember how they were at a certain age as they get older and the memories blur. Owen is getting so big! It's hard to believe he has six teeth and is crawling already! You are Super Mom!

What a sweet letter! I'm so glad to have found you again...I read your old blog. Was that way back when Mia was about this age?

Oh my, that child loves you. I have never seen a baby morph so quickly from absolutely ecstatic to absolutely despondent and back again.

I am thrilled to find out I am not the only one with floors that have the occasional cracker on it :)

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So the Fish Said...

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear.

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