Happy Halloween...

...from a very uncertain little boy, who isn't sure if he likes being dressed up as a dinosaur. No worries kid, in a couple of years you will figure out that this holidays represents a lot of candy, and I think you will like it more then.

Mail's here!

George received his very first package in the mail today. (If you addressed something directly to him prior to this, well... Sorry. I've been sleep-deprived and conveniently blaming my poor memory on this excuse.) His Auntie Nikki was even sweet enough to include what is his very first (very sweet, HANDWRITTEN! Guys, I don't even handwrite my grocery list) letter. He has been fortunate to receive lots of gifts from people who love him, even before he was born, but this is the first package I can think of that has been addressed directly to him.

Receiving mail when I was a kid was like winning the lottery. That very potential was the reason why I always volunteered to go get the mail. And on those rare occasions there was something addressed to me? I was ecstatic. It was just such a great way to feel special as a child.

Snail mail is dying off, and there is talk of the post office no longer operating on Saturdays. The world is changing from what it was when I was a kid. I know this. Heck, George already has an e-mail address. I didn't get one of those until I was the ripe old age of 13.

But I have a feeling George will still love receiving mail from people who love him.

Do you have these fond memories of mail from when you were a kid? Or do you still get as excited about receiving something with your name on it? Or do you like sending mail more than receiving it? Earlier this week I stumbled on Happy Mail, the cutest little blog chock full of ideas on lightweight items to send someone via mail. Maybe it will motivate me to send some mail of my own. In the meantime, I will enjoy reading George his new book.

Mobility.

I have been in denial for a few days about this development. He finally got good enough this morning to get to and consequently overturn the cat's water dish on himself, so I could not deny it any longer. The baby is mobile.

I guess this is creeping? Or army crawling? Or scooting? I don't know, it's mobility = doom. Especially since he only seems motivated to go for 1) my laptop, 2) my phone, 3) the cat's water bowl, and 4) electrical cords. Hopefully he will use his powers for good someday, like to reach his fun and obnoxiously colored/lit/noisy/safe toys.

Squishy faces.

Rob thinks George and I look alike.





I don't see the resemblance myself, aside from the remarkably squishy quality of our faces and our adorable double chins.

Speaking of family resemblance, check this out. My mom:





Me:





Let's take a closer look:





Yeah, I think we are related.

An anniversary three years in the making.

Three years ago today, we married.

He is my partner. He makes me laugh, even when I don't think I want to laugh. He is so certain, it's maddening and yet ultimately (usually) comforting to behold. He is patient. So patient. He is one of the most affectionate people I know. He's not particularly reliable, but he knows it so he doesn't call me a nag when I continually remind him of events and obligations. When he hugs me, I feel safe. He doesn't like to celebrate anything, but he humors me when I do. He is the best father George could have, and watching him experience such joy when he is with George makes me light up. He's smart, and he would rather explain how something works than be condescending to someone else who doesn't know better.

(Like last week, when I tried to broil steaks for the first time, and I was all, "Why is this meat still bloody?" And he went, "Because you need to put it on the top rack and crack the door open." And he didn't laugh at me. Not to my face at least, and that's what counts. Also, CLEARLY ovens need instruction manuals. Also also, I am never broiling anything ever again because I have visions of baby hands burning themselves in that crack.)

Today he said to me, "So we started dating about five years ago, right?"

I reply, "Yeah, why?"

His response was, "My five year plan worked."

He wanted to be married with a kid by 30, the birthday that passed last week. I am married to an older man. Sexy!

I guess I can check "Be an item on someone else's bucket list" off of my bucket list. And "Make it to three year anniversary." I know, not trendy bucket list items. It's okay, El Hub loves me lack of coolness and all.

Love you, hun.

Seven months.

Dear George,

Check me out! I'm writing your letter on the actual day of the month of you were born! I don't think I've done this since you were...ever. I've never managed to get one of these posts done on time. Oops. Whatever.

You are closer to one year old than the day you were born. That boggles my mind. You are my baby, such a little baby who drinks his bottle and occasionally condescends to snuggle in my arms. One-year-olds are mobile thundering giants who say actual words and eat lots of real food. How can we be this much closer to that age?

Your major accomplishment this month was learning to sit up on your own. It went down the same way your rolling did - you were not so hot at it for weeks on end, and then one day, suddenly, you got it. You had it. You were sitting up like a pro overnight. I have said before that this is where I would like to hit the pause button, and I mean it. You are such a happy little guy, and it the cuteness just goes through the roof when you sit up in the grocery cart seat, or in a high chair at a restaurant, or I plop you down to play with your toys.

Crawling is supposed to be the next milestone on the radar, but you are not even close. You roll and spin in circles to get where you are trying to go, and you do not seem to frustrated by it. I do think that your motivation to eventually crawl will be the cats. Oh man, do you want to get those cats. I don't blame you. They are kind of jerks, especially when they walk juuuuuust out of your reach. Or they vomit on your toys. Like I said, jerks.

Another accomplishment this past month is that you have begun to take to your sippy cup. You have not mastered it, but you actually get liquid out of it. Years from now when you are struggling with your calculus homework, I will just tell you about the time that I was so very proud that you could drink from your sippy cup. And you will be all, "Ugh, Mom, what is the point of that lame story?" The point is that I will love you no matter happens with your math class. Now stop sassing your mother.

You and I are getting out of the house more. Momma's making friends, which is great for her quality of life, which in turn is great for your quality of life. Happy momma, happy baby. I have heard that saying a lot since having you, and it is true. I just need to pull that line out so I can justify getting a pedicure.

There are so many things that make you happy. I wish that joy could come to you this easily for the rest of your life. Sometimes you break out in a huge smile just because I say "Hi." You love it when I read or sing to you. A couple of days ago I busted out with "Stop! Hammertime. Doo doo doo doo, doo, doo." Yes, your momma rapped for you. That is how much I love you. You rewarded me by laughing like it was the funniest thing you ever saw in your nearly seven months of life. Which might be the truth.

Love you stinkerdoodle,

Momma, aka That Goofy Lady

George laughing at Jack the dog.

Sorry George, we are never owning a dog. Momma's 1) allergic, 2) afraid of them, and 3) unwilling to become the person to walk it/clean up after it/walk it/clean up after it/walk it... You get the point. But I am sure you will make lots of nice friends who have dogs, and you can go play at their houses. Momma will stay at home with the kitties.