Henry is nine months old today. Nine! He’s been out almost as long as he was in (I’m never letting you forget those extra two weeks, kid.), which seems both exactly right and impossible at the same time.
He loooooooves to nurse. LOVES it. I have to wear him at the store instead of putting him in the cart because he likes to lean forward and feel me up with both hands as I walk through Target, just to make sure the milks aren’t going anywhere. He will also latch on to anything even remotely boob-shaped. Just in case, I guess.
He signs for milk, smiles at me, and then starts clapping when I go to unhook my nursing bra. I hope to wean him before he learns to give a thumbs up.
When he’s happy, he grunts and squeals and coos; when he’s mad, he babbles like crazy. And it usually starts with MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA, so I have a feeling he’s calling out for his real mother, the one who doesn’t do terrible, horrible things like change his diaper or force him to wear clothes (which, let’s be honest, I don’t even do all the time. He spends a lot of time without pants on because, eh. He’s a baby. It doesn’t matter.)
He’s a big fan of throwing things. He’ll happily sign All Done when he’s finished eating something, and then pitches what’s left of it across the room just to punctuate the statement. The dog loves this behavior; I am not a huge fan.
I can no longer eat anything or drink anything with a straw without sharing. And if I try not to share, I’m rewarded with a loud AH AH AH AH AH which I’m pretty sure means “Lady. Food. In Here.”; I think if he knew how to point to his mouth, he would.
He gives kisses now! Only to me, and they are mostly just leaning on my face with an open, drooly mouth, but they are still the best completely inept kisses I’ve ever gotten.
Crawling is, apparently, for babies. He cruises everywhere he can, pushes a walker everywhere else, and this morning he was pushing around a box because he pushed his walker into a wall and couldn’t figure out how to turn it around. He stands around a lot, with a thoughtful look on his face, and I have a feeling he’s trying to figure out this walking thing.
(I am figuring out how not to knock him down once he starts the walking thing. Too soon!)
He will, however, crawl to get away from me before a bath — and then looks back at me and laughs and laughs, like he’s really getting away with something.
I know so many people say after they have kids that they can hardly imagine a life without those children; it seems like they’ve always been there. I get that, but I do still fondly remember my life pre-Henry. Mostly the parts where I got to sleep for more than four hours at a time, occasionally be blessedly alone, and I knew where all of the stains on my shirts came from. Still, I wouldn’t trade him for the world. Everyone thinks they got the best baby, which, of course. That’s how it’s designed, I’m sure. But we really did get the best one of all.