Destructibaby is 17 months old. When he cries, his sweet mouth widens to a warbling rectangle and tears leak down his cheeks, and he stands with his arms at his sides, chin up, crying out, “Hon-eeeee! Hon-eeeee!”
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On Friday, a doctor said something to me no woman wants to hear: “You have a mass on your ovary, and it could be benign!”
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On Monday, a co-worker asked how my Thanksgiving was.
"Horrible," I said. "I slept on the floor because my son wouldn't sleep in the Pack 'n Play. How was yours?"
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My son, current nickname Dirtbaby, is 14 months old. He has been walking for three months and no longer holds his arms in front of him like a zombie. He says "thank you" and "book" and "ball" and "hello" and "bye-bye."
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A few weeks ago, Gordo, my son, my baby, turned 1. Which, as the pediatrician informed us, means he's no longer an infant JESUS YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO SAY IT OUT LOUD. He's a toddler now, and his main activities are 1). speaking in tongues, and 2). falling off the back porch.
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