Monday, January 17, 2011

1/2 year poem

You’re six months old
And such a little boy

When we stick you in footsie PJs
(which is every day)
(all day long)
I kinda want to eat you like a teething biscuit

I actually don’t know what those are
Because fortunately you aren’t very disturbed
By the white bone cutting through your baby gums
But I want to gnaw on you just the same
I’m teething for your cute little boyness

Your little boy hair and sitting and toe grabbing
Falling over and sprawling and pivoting around on your belly
Like the minute hand of a clock
Your book eating
And frustration when I don’t let you mouth a friend’s Nalgene bottle
Give me Give me Give me you hand outstretch grunt

Friends said things get “different” not “easier”
As the baby grows
I say
You are so much easier
So much happier
So much fatter
So much more communicative
So smiley
So giggly
So singy and mimicky
So consistent in your night sleep
(thank you, patron saint of parents)
So chalk full of solid poopy
So less tearful:
In the bath, car, stroller, arms, breast, bottle, swing
You just cry a lot lot less

I hope I forget how much you cried
I hope you forget how much you cried
Maybe you never knew

I hope I forget how little you ate
I hope that in 6 more months
Your Aba and I can completely stop taking notes
on the magnetic fridge pad
on how much you’ve eaten today
and will we get to 30 ounces by bedtime?
Jesus, can we get to 30 oz by bedtime?

I also hope that someday soon
You outgrow those 3 months onsies
That’s just embarrassing
For a little boy such as yourself
So baby
When you’re so big
Or at least

You string bean
Muscle machine
You on all fours
Rocking back and forth and then
to your belly

You ping pong ball baby
Against the bumpers of your crib
Rotating on every axis
For 50 minutes
And then finally
On your stomach
arms out at each side
in "stick em up" position
Head to the right
Head to the left
Big sigh

For 30 minutes
Which is better