Urban Drool

My little pickle,

Today you are 3 months old. Wow. That seems so old to me, compared to the little wrinkled squadge-face your father presented me with 3 months (and about 12 hours) ago.

This has been an absolutely huge month for you. You have developed in quantum leaps in the past 4 weeks. You are eating my boobs dry, and I can barely pump enough milk at work on Monday for daddy to feed you on Tuesday while I am away. Some days, he runs out by 2 or 3 pm and ends up slipping you a few ounces of formula to keep you from shrieking until I get home at 5:30.

5:30pm. It’s become my favorite time of the day. I see you for the FIRST time since 7:15 that morning. Yesterday at 5:30 was absolute GOLD when you saw me and grinned that big gummy grin of yours and then…and then…you LAUGHED!!!! A loud, raucous belly chuckle that lasted for 2.5 precious seconds. I will remember that sound for the rest of my life.

More updates over the past month include your ever-deepening friendship with Mr. Bee (who sits to the left of you in your bouncy seat), a continued quiet hostility towards Mr. Blue Racoon (to the right of you in your bouncy seat), the ability to ROLL OVER OH MY HEAVENS SAVE US ALL JOE PESCI and your fondness for patting down my boob as you nurse. Dear, what the fuck are you looking for exactly as you fondle on and underneath my boob? Gold nuggets? An unregistered hand-gun? Spoilers to the first episode of Deadwood (June 11, 2006 cannot come soon enough)?

Fucking Hoople-head honey. Say it with Mommy now…”Fuuuuucking Hoooople-head.”

You also have taken to holding 10-20 minute long lectures about 3 times a day where you stare at your father or I and proclaim any or all of the following in rapid succession:

ooooOOOOoo!!
Uuuhhhhhhhhh!!
Mmmmmmmm!!
allllllll-AH! Alllllll-AH!

It’s this last one that has us pissing our pants with hysterical laughter. There you are, a tiny little daygo baby, so Italian that you probably have olive oil and red wine running through your veins instead of blood, and you frequently like to call upon Allah, the merciful.

We need to talk about the state of your poop, my pickle. You have been, from the time you were hours old, a hearty and healthy pooper. I could count on you going at least 3 times a day. The poop was proliferous and falling from the ceiling, just like it should in a healthy little squadge. Now? NOW? I have no idea what happened, but in the past 36 hours you. have. not. pooped. And you? Are getting very cranky. And dad? Is getting concerned.

Dear. You need to understand that your daddy is nutters. Absolutely barmy at times, and you doing things like UPSETING THE UNDERSTOOD SCHEDULE OF THE DAY tends to make him a bit antsy. When you get older and ask me “why?” I will hand you Webster’s Dictionary and tell you to look up “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”

But seriously, you seem to be getting pretty uncomfortable. So honey, can you just please poop already?

I am at work right now, and I cannot wait to get home and see you. I love you so very much. Working is not getting any easier, but maybe I just have to accept that your existence in of itself has caused absolute emotional turmoil for me. But you know, in a good way. You’re my pickle. My little squadgling. My Lucy-Goose-Juice-Buckets and no one in the universe is more important.

Warm sloppy kisses all over your belly,

Mama