Dear Truett,
Yesterday was your seventh month birthday and on it you took your first flight. I'm not going to say it was my favorite experience because I had not anticipated the anxiety I would feel stepping into a TIN CAN WITH WINGS HOLDING MY BABY. See how I did that? Called the plane something insignicant and dangerous? That is how life changes when you have a baby. Before? It would have been a majestic piece of machinery, built to carry me off to exotic and fun places. Now, well now it's just a death trap in the air.
But you, you did all right. Fussed a little, acted frustrated when we took off because I'm sure your ears hurt, but overall you flew like a champ.
This month you've gone from belly crawling to all-fours crawling and in just the last couple of days you are working really hard to pull up and stand. I know. I can't believe it either except for I can because I am also the mother of the seven week old who rolled over. I know it was an accident, something you didn't begin repeating on purpose until much much later, but dude, POINT IS. You rolled from the sheer velocity of energy being pushed out of your little body. Just today as you nursed I pointed out to my mother (your Nammy) how you keep up a steady rythm of kicking as you eat. Generally your feet land somewhere on my belly or side but today the couch bore the brunt of the action. Thank you couch.
You've done a lot this month. Become cuter, if that is even possible. Become more mobile which is simply frightening. Cut three teeth and nearly numbers four and five! (Not so fun for sleep patterns but exciting nonetheless.) You flirt something absolutely awful. I won't even know what's going on only to turn around in the store and see several people standing behind me, goofball looks on their faces cooing and babbling at you. I'm all, yep! he's a flirt that one. And then hug you because you are the best baby anyone ever had.
What I really want to do in this post though is to tell you a story. An amazingly scary story.
Saturday afternoon your father and I were just puttering around the house, watching a little tv, wasting time on The Facebook Space of Complete Time Suckage and just generally enjoying our weekend. We'd turned a cardboard box on its side for you to play in and hey, it's only cardboard! so we weren't watching you super carefully. I walked into the kitchen and peeked down at you for a second before heading into the living room and realized you had this by-now-familiar look on your face. You had something stuck in your throat. At first I wasn't particularly worried because you do that a lot, work something away from the back of your throat with your tongue or look a little worried as you mouthe down your not-so-favorite foods. Cough just for the hell of scaring me. That sort of thing. But as I watched you more closely it became apparent that whatever was bugging you would not dislodge. I scooped you up, still expecting your face to return to normal shortly, but it did not. I gave you a thump or two on the back. Still nothing. As if in an awful nightmare where time sloooows waaaaay doown, I realized you were in fact choking on something. I yelled, "BUD I NEED YOUR HELP!" because I had not a clue what to do. I'd HEARD about what to do when a baby chokes, but in that moment I became about as useful as the paper wrapper of a straw after it is soaked with Coke from the table top. Your dad walked over quickly and took you out of my arms and began patting you on the back. Still you continued choking except for now your face had turned red and tears poured out of your eyes. I completely panicked:
DOES HE NEED JUICE?!
DO I CALL SOMEONE?!
SHOULD I REACH IN THERE?!
PLEASE TELL ME WHAT TO DO BUD!
Your dad did not tell me what to do. He didn't even look at me, much less answer. And this is one of those instances where I will be forever grateful for his singleminded nature. He tuned me out. Completely calm, he turned you onto your belly, head towards the floor over his knee and began pounding your back. It's true, what they say, that it felt like an eternity. But then ohmyJesus sweet relief THEN you spit up and out a piece of cardboard. A big, flat, slimy piece that at first looked like a leaf so that I yelled (helpfully I might add) IT WAS A LEAF, until we realized what had actually happened. (In other words, BEWARE CARDBOARD, that substance you used to think safe.)
So here's the thing. There are going to be times growing up when your dad absolutely drives you crazy, the same way he does me. He's going to be on your ass about this or that, pick up your shoes PICKUPYOURSHOES and you are, at least momentarily, going to hate him. But trust me on this one, you want him on your side.
