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aki Baby,

Whenever I write or say your name, I can’t resist the urge to bust out into a chorus of, “Kak kak kak kak! Kak kak kak kicky Kaks! Kak kak kak Kaki Kaki kicky Kaki girl! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!” I sing this repeatedly to you, with the gusto and fanfare of midwestern high school marching band. The most joyous development this month has been that you now respond to this ridiculous ditty with comparable enthusiasm. You smile and wiggle and clap your hands. Showing much pleasure and rhythmic savvy, if I do say so myself. I cannot get enough of the hand clapping. Your ability to mimic this simple physical gesture is positively magnificent and has made your engagement in Music Class and with your mommy’s absurd array of musical ditties all the more enjoyable.

But your physical skill merely begins with the hand clapping. You maneuver around the house with the speed and agility of Dash (from The Incredibles, duh!) except your sense of boundaries and safety is more on par with Jack Jack. I feel as though you’re on the brink of going up in flames at any moment.

Baby on fire, not good. Not good!

Daddy and I are poor Jack Jack’s helpless babysitter, watching chaos unfold before our eyes as you overturn the dog’s water bowl for the 8,000th time, and hurl every item from the recycling bin across the kitchen floor before pulling up, to standing, GASP!, and yanking the table cloth out from under our dinner with the skill of an inebriated magician. We are powerless to stop it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true, but if we DO stop it, we must face the wrath of your “Death Scream.” A very specific tenor of your shrieks that you unleash when you are most displeased and wish to shatter glass across the state of Vermont and into Berkshire County.

Just this month you’ve learned to couple your Death Scream with the “Body Hurl,” which is just as it sounds, you hurling yourself backwards out of the arms in which you are being held, to convey ultimate fury and unhappiness.

It’s quite effective. Terrifying. But effective.

Ah, my dear, with you, there is never a dull moment. Have I mentioned your sneeze? I cannot possibly forget to mention your sneeze. You see, most people approach the sneeze with the timing of say a 16th note, perhaps an 8th if it is of the heartier, more dramatic variety. Yours? It’s a whole note. Nay, one of those long, drawn out notes where the conductor holds her arms out like Christ at the cross, dragging every last sound from the orchestra before her.  That, my dear, is your sneeze, plus an extra 10 seconds. And it’s not the peak or climax of the sneeze that you highlight, but the denouement. The “ooooo” part of the Ahchoo. Don’t you worry, I’ve called Guinness and informed them that we have a new skill for their record books. You’re an endurance sneezer. God bless you.

You are constantly on the move. Busy and joyous and literally humming and bubbling over with curiosity and a cavalier sense of adventure. Our relationship has changed, as you no longer require my arms for mobility or entertainment. And you eat solid food by the bowl full – I’m talking serving bowl sized. We have no idea where you stash it away, but you are a ravenous eater. A true gourmand. Enthusiastic to sample whatever we have to offer. You are a chow hound and no longer need to nurse with much frequency as you prefer to consume your calories in the form of mushed fruits and veggies and cereal.

You have gained a sense of autonomy this month that has marked a papable shift. You are a little less dependent. A little less mine. And it makes my heart hurt, trying to make sense of the complexity of this transition.

I’m currently reading a book called Making Babies: Stumbling Into Motherhood by Anne Enright and she says it best when she describes her child learning to crawl, “It is the beginning of the end of a romance between a woman who has forgotten who she is and a child who does not yet know.”

As you become more independent, as you consume more solid food, as you play autonomously, as you teach your limbs to bend and grasp and move and perform, I gain a bit more of myself back. Not to say that it was lost, but it was put on hold during a time when I was your only source of nourishment and felt an all-consuming protectiveness and responsibility to your every breath.

While I relish the release of this pressure, I am sad to say goodbye to a period that marks a very unique and special relationship and intimacy between mother and child.

Fortunately, I still have glimpses of those moments when you nurse. In fact, my favorite times of the day are when we are curled up together nursing. This happens once in the middle of the night, (Editor’s Note: Now there’s an area where I could stand for you to take that developmental leap and just go ahead and sleep right through until dawn. Just a gentle suggestion), then again first thing in the morning, before I drag myself from bed to start the day, and then again right when I come home from work and then finally, right before I lay you down for bed. Those four periods I cherish. They are my excuse to retreat to my bedroom, away from the noise, and the boxes waiting to be unpacked, and the responsibility, and the dirty dishes, and the emails, and curl up, just you and me. You are most certainly busier than ever while nursing, performing impressive yoga moves while remaining latched to my person or clawing at every mole or bump on my skin, but sometimes, you pause just long enough to lock eyes with me, and I witness the side of your mouth curving into a milk stained smile, and oh, my love. If only I could bottle that kind of serenity.

I love you, my darling 9 month old.

143 Mama