Monday, June 18, 2012

Big Guy

(I realize I still owe Katie a "oh my gosh, you're seven.  how did that happen?  Oh, the painted ponies go up and down..." post.  It will come.  Probably.)

August has crossed over into big kid land.  We last nursed about 10 days ago so I'm going to go ahead and call it "done."  I was out of town for a few days in late May and came back to a major mama-freak-out-nurse-a-thon for a few days and started wondering if he'd ever ween or if I'd have to actually make an effort (to be avoided at all costs.  Effort = work and I hate work.)  But then we settled back into the every-other-day-ish routine again.  I went out of town again last weekend and came home to find him utterly over it.  I even offered a few nights ago when he was screaming in pain and was refused so, yes.  A solid 22 months of snuggling and we're both, apparently, totally ready to close that chapter.

In related news, he never did take a bottle other than a few half-hearted attempts in the early months.  By 8 or 9 months he could handle a straw-based sippy cup at mealtimes, but now at 22 months he demands a real cup for meals.  We haven't gone so far as to give him a glass (which the big kids use) but instead use our small plastic cups.  They're from a restaurant supply store and are thin and tall, making them easy to hold and drink from and he is pretty decent at it.  However, this weekend I made the mistake of pouring some of his milk from his drinking cup into his bowl of cereal and all order and logic in the universe was negated.  This thing pours!?  Into other things?  Oh, it's on.  (Mostly it's on the table.  Or the floor.  Or his lap.  It's just rarely in.)

He's also a champion climber: I walked into the front room to find him laying on top of the piano this weekend--an upright if you're curious.  I'm still not sure if he climbed up from the keyboard side or down over the stair railing.  Neither is good.  He scales out of his crib in a heartbeat.  In the minivan he climbs into the car seat and back down to the ground.  Stairs are playthings.  No curb can be passed un-stepped, no bench un-scaled, no tree branch un-sat-upon.  Height and speed are his joys; bedtime and face washing his scourge.

He adores Jorge and spends most of his time giving coy looks to make him laugh or lure him into a game.
His favorite things in the world are bikes, hikes, and snacks.  (Just like his dad.)  A promise of a bike ride or to see some trees will briefly stop the world from spinning.
A big noisy truck doesn't go unappreciated, either.
Any and all white sedans earn a "mama!?  mama!  mama!"
Dogs, bugs, birds, cars and water.  None can be seen without being duly acknowledged and admired.
Finding the mouse in Good Night Moon is an absolute riot and necessity.
Brushing teeth is the bees knees.
Washing hands is even better.
Just get that wash cloth away from my face.
When something stinks he rubs his nose and calls "nose.  nose."
He refuses to eat anything without a fork or spoon.
Angel food cake with cool whip or whipped cream isn't so much eaten as absorbed.

I love this boy.  This giggling, curly-haired, smile on legs.  This stompy-footed, grabby-handed, whirlwind.  This sweetly opinionated, vigorous head-shaker.  My Augs.

1 comment:

  1. I'm not sure how it works out that you're both brilliant at math and writing, but it does. Thank you. What a boy and a lucky mom.

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