Henry is ONE! I can't believe how quickly the past year has gone by. I miss the sweet scent of a newborn and the soft coo of an infant. Now we ask each other questions such as "Why does the baby smell like meat?" and we hear the ear splitting trill of 'daDAdadada!'. He is the sweetest baby I've ever met but, like all babies, he is a lot of work. I truly think that the high pitched chipmunk chatter I hear coming from his crib in the pre-dawn stillness is a motivational speech he gives himself in order to keep up the fast paced activities throughout the day. He goes over the checklist, sometimes twice, just to make sure he doesn't forget anything.
I long for the days when he was still immobile and content to stay so. Wasn't it wonderful when he just laid there sucking on his toes? Now, he is everywhere and into everything. He methodically and systematically works his way through the house checking items off of his to-do list:
Pull on the curtains to bend the rod? Check.
Dump out my brother's water bottle in the recliner? Check. Check.
Splash in toilets? Check. Check. Check.
He empties drawers in the kitchen, he climbs in cupboards, he tips over the trash can. The floor is piled high with the rubble of his passing. One must negotiate rather carefully in order to survive crossing the wasteland that used to be our living room.
Sitting from the (relative) safety of the desk, I can survey the extent of the damage and the need to document the destruction is overwhelming. There are smashed graham crackers in the rug and a piece of wet, limp turkey jerky under the couch. I guess that explains why the baby smells like meat. Large sized Legos and stuffed animals are spread out as far as the eye can see. My turkey baster and someone's toothbrush are under the television table and all the bottom shelves have been emptied of their books. Because the floor is so obviously Henry's domain, the older boys have taken to spreading their toys out on the higher surfaces. Therefore the piano is covered in pirate and firefighter figurines frozen in the midst of battle. The mantel is a display for the smaller sized Lego sculptures and one very odd arrangement of used sucker sticks built into a teepee. As I type all of this, I watch Henry slide into the room doing that army low crawl he's so famous for, and it looks like he's swimming through a sea of Legos as he pushes them out of his way to cut a path. When he looks up and meets my gaze, his face lights up, squishing into the most heartwarming and contagious smile I've ever seen and he squeals out a greeting: "Hiiii!". Sigh. He is forgiven. How can I begrudge the happy devastation of his surroundings when he does it with such uncensored joy? That sweet little guy is perfect just as he is, and I wouldn't change a thing. I am, however, counting down the minutes until nap time.
I long for the days when he was still immobile and content to stay so. Wasn't it wonderful when he just laid there sucking on his toes? Now, he is everywhere and into everything. He methodically and systematically works his way through the house checking items off of his to-do list:
Pull on the curtains to bend the rod? Check.
Dump out my brother's water bottle in the recliner? Check. Check.
Splash in toilets? Check. Check. Check.
He empties drawers in the kitchen, he climbs in cupboards, he tips over the trash can. The floor is piled high with the rubble of his passing. One must negotiate rather carefully in order to survive crossing the wasteland that used to be our living room.
Sitting from the (relative) safety of the desk, I can survey the extent of the damage and the need to document the destruction is overwhelming. There are smashed graham crackers in the rug and a piece of wet, limp turkey jerky under the couch. I guess that explains why the baby smells like meat. Large sized Legos and stuffed animals are spread out as far as the eye can see. My turkey baster and someone's toothbrush are under the television table and all the bottom shelves have been emptied of their books. Because the floor is so obviously Henry's domain, the older boys have taken to spreading their toys out on the higher surfaces. Therefore the piano is covered in pirate and firefighter figurines frozen in the midst of battle. The mantel is a display for the smaller sized Lego sculptures and one very odd arrangement of used sucker sticks built into a teepee. As I type all of this, I watch Henry slide into the room doing that army low crawl he's so famous for, and it looks like he's swimming through a sea of Legos as he pushes them out of his way to cut a path. When he looks up and meets my gaze, his face lights up, squishing into the most heartwarming and contagious smile I've ever seen and he squeals out a greeting: "Hiiii!". Sigh. He is forgiven. How can I begrudge the happy devastation of his surroundings when he does it with such uncensored joy? That sweet little guy is perfect just as he is, and I wouldn't change a thing. I am, however, counting down the minutes until nap time.
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