You have teeth! Two of them miraculously sprouted out of your bottom gums a few weeks ago and I nearly fell over when I realized I hadn't noticed any change in your temperament or behavior. I mean, having solid objects forcefully shove their way out of the soft tissue in your mouth can't be a pleasant experience. But you didn't so much as whimper. I give you two gold stars -- one for each central incisor.
I suppose I should've noticed when your drool started rivaling Niagara Falls. In a matter of seconds, you can soak through two layers of clothes, my shirt, a blanket and still have enough to make a pool on the floor for Toby to swim in.
Just yesterday we were over at your cousin Emily's house, and when you started leaking, she couldn't take it. "ALLISON IS SPITTING ON THE FLOOOOOOR!"
Never mind that their house is under renovation and it's just a subfloor covered with construction dust. You were spitting in her house. Where she might walk. In her new flip flops. And I watched as her little 4-year-old head almost exploded from the audacity of it all.
Then, as another drip cascaded down with a splat, you smiled and all was forgiven. Emily spent the next five hours trying to get you to show her your two-tooth grin.
You won me over with that smile months ago. I guess it's time I share it.
Now you can't keep your hands off of them. Putting you in a diaper is like a professional wrestling match. I'm pretty sure that at 5-months-old you could qualify as a top contender for a WWE main event.
I can practically hear the words, "Let's get ready to RUMMMBLE!" when I catch an unsavory whiff coming from your butt. I carry you to your changing table, spend 43 minutes trying to pry your interlocked fingers and toes apart so you flop into a straight line, then I jam the diaper around you as fast as I can before your hands and feet become one solid mass of knuckles again.
I'll hang your world championship belt above your door.
Whistling is in.
Well, your father's pathetic attempt at whistling anyway. He's never been able to whistle, but he's getting damn close with all of the practice he's getting these days. I'm not sure how he stumbled upon your latest obsession, but you love watching him struggle to get a note out.
He just sort of holds you close, furrows his brow and blows his entire lung capacity of air through his pursed lips. Your hair fluffs with each puff and you smile and grin and look at me as if to say, "This guy? He's hilarious. Can we keep him?"
Most of the time you're such a quiet thoughtful baby. I look at you and think you must be pondering the laws of quantum physics. Or whether the atom really is the smallest particle that composes a chemical element.
Then, all of a sudden, you turn into a shrieking banshee who seems to simply enjoy the sounds coming out of her mouth. You're not crying or upset. You just start yelping "AAAAIIIIiiiieeeEEEE! AAAAIIIIiiiieeeEEEE! AAAAIIIIiiiieeeEEEE!" over and over and over until I can't take it anymore and I press the magical sound button on one of your toys.
Then, just as quickly as it started, you stop and listen. You love music. It doesn't matter if it's your dad's death metal, your singing stuffed pink dragon named Bernice, my latest obsession with John Legend or The Wiggles crooning about hot potatoes and cold spaghetti.
We've pressed the music button on your baby beach band drum so many times that it's already not quite able to hit the high notes anymore. The irreplaceable battery is slowly dying and I'm positive you'll want absolutely nothing to do with it once it doesn't sing anymore.
I'm not sure which one of us is going to be more upset. That thing has kept you quiet long enough for me and your father to cram a few hot meals into our mouths. In between forkfuls, we take turns pressing the music button because you're so content to listen.
I may write a letter to the company asking that they send me a few thousand more of the magical song buttons.
The toy? Meh.
You've stopped just looking behind me when I'm carrying you around and now turn to face forward. And wouldn't you know there's a whole bunch of stuff going on up there.
Like that crazy glass of orange juice you want to be a part of every morning. On more than one occasion, you've dunked your entire fist in. Or the open cabinet door you swing on its hinges. Or the remote control you want to shove in your mouth. Or grabbing at dad's disgusting bologna, salami, roast beef and ham sandwich. Or my toothbrush. Or Toby's wet nose.
You also invented your own version of peek-a-boo combined with hide-and-seek. I call it peek-and-seek.
When I'm holding you in a mirror and you turn to face me, I act bowled over with surprise, you shriek and bury your head in my shoulder. Then, just when you think I can't see you facing the other way, I turn so that you're looking at the mirror again and WOA! I'm over THERE too!
Life with you is full of such simple pleasures. I cherish every one.