Dear Bee,

You’re part of a union, aren’t you? I knew it all along. You started picketing against nursing this week (again) and I kept thinking that part of it was teething, or maybe it could have been the 24-hour whirlwind trip to Seattle I tried to take Monday but instead was stuck in the Minneapolis airport for millions of hours, pumping milk at the charging station next to all of the businessmen with their big fingers and tiny phones. But then I came home and realized you started a sleep strike as well, so now I’m just convinced you’re the union leader of all babies and are going to make me buy you poster board and glitter glue next time I’m at the drugstore. Strikes are fun for you, aren’t they? I see it in your eyes.

You have this look about you, Bee. It’s half teenager, half puppy and I fear you’re going to perfect it any day now so you can pull it out of your pocket when it’s time for toddler leverage, like when you break a vase or put bubble gum in my hair. And I’m realizing that no one ever told me that once I’d get over the fear of breaking my baby, my mind would somehow transition into a fear that my baby is going to break me. You’re a drug these days, a magnificent upper that I keep drinking, knowing that at the end of the night you’re going to turn to me with your teenager-puppy look and ask to borrow the car even though you’ve wrecked it twice. (I’m totally going to say yes, which proves that you’ve somehow already impaired my assessment skills beyond restoration.)

You’re super cute when you poo. I’m sorry I have to discuss this here, but I want to remember forever and always how funny it is to watch you excrete into your pants. Your head goes down, way down, as if you were searching the rug for a missing Lego and suddenly there is a volcanic explosion that happens below your waist. You then grunt like a frat boy or gorilla or He-Man until the lava has flown and your pants are at peace. And then you smile, as if you’ve achieved a feat beyond your wildest dreams. It’s endearing and fascinating to watch and makes me look forward to 10am daily. (10am is Poo O’Clock and I have a sneaking suspicious you’ve been snacking on fiber between meals because you are more regular than a box of frosted mini wheats.)

Teething still makes you sort of unfortunate to be around, but we’re getting by with an ice-filled sock and your wooden teethers. Also, lots of repeat plays of The Jungle Book soundtrack and dance parties in the kitchen. You seem to respond well to constant distractions, which of course means you’re going to be a total nightmare on future road trips.

Tonight we’re going to order takeout, sit by the Christmas tree and finish our holiday cards. I can’t wait for you to learn to use your thumbs so you can be on stamp duty. It’s exhausting and you sort of owe me for all of this teething business.

Maybe next year?


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