Fumbling dummies

Today Marlo turns eleven months old.

eleven months

Remember when I used to write a monthly newsletter to Leta? Yeah, yeah. Good times. And when I was pregnant with Marlo I planned to continue those newsletters, except I’d be writing it to the both of them. No big deal. And then BOOM. Two kids. Like, a semi truck full of angry, bipolar chickens landed on the house, and we had to clean up the mess with our hands tied behind our backs. That.

I know that those of you who have more kids are just shaking your heads and thinking PATHETIC. And you’re right! Pathetic we are! This kid is totally kicking our ass. She is unlike the kid that came before her. In that she moves.

Just this morning as she was finishing her first bottle and getting ready to fling it across our bed against the wall, Jon asked if I remembered those quite mornings we spent with Leta nestled between us, watching the news, dozing… WE’LL NEVER HAVE THAT AGAIN, HEATHER, he said. Through gritted teeth. A tear in his eye. As he grabbed Marlo’s foot, her body dangling off the side of the bed.

Our child-proofing technique up until yesterday was to have someone watching her at all times, and that worked when she was immobile and interested in sitting on the floor with the remote in her mouth. But now that she can move — and we’re talking FLYING through the room — this technique is proving totally idiotic. Or what’s the word? Oh, right. Pathetic. We’ve had an eleven-month-old before, we should know what we’re doing! But you have to understand! It’s like this whole time we’ve been raising a turtle, and now suddenly we’ve been handed a jackal with a debilitating meth addiction. Make it work!

Why do we have ANYTHING at a height she can reach? Because she will reach it, oh yes. She will grab it, tear it apart, laugh maniacally, and then shove it into her mouth, daring us to stick our finger inside to protect her from choking. Because she bites.

OMG. I gave birth to Coco.