Eleven Weeks

Dear Patrick: You are eleven weeks old!

The countdown has begun for Mommy to go back to work. The idea of being apart from you for over 12 hours is a bit daunting, as I miss you even when I take the puppies out for a long walk. I know you'll be fine with the wonderful day-care lady we've found, and Daddy is so wonderful with you (and it'll be good for him to have you ALL DAY LONG. By HIMSELF). But you won't be with me. The Mommy. The one who feeds you.

Which reminds me, we really should do some more trail runs with the bottle.

We make you do tummy time every day so you can practice lifting your head up. You are slowly getting better at it, but you aren't necessarily pleased about the process. The mirror we bought to entertain you does help. For about 30 seconds. It's all I can do to not rush to pick you up when you start to protest. Your cries pull at me in the middle of my chest. These must be the same hormones that allow me to walk around the Proctor district for two hours, then return to find I've left the driver's side door wide open.

You smile more and more. You are THIS CLOSE to giggling. You like to grab at my shirt while nursing, and toys are slowly more interesting. We read books and look at ourselves in the mirror. We have delightful conversations in a language known only to babies. But your favorite activity is still laying on the floor naked and kicking your legs while Mommy makes noises from above. It's amazing how like your Daddy you are.

Mommy works hard to get out of the house with you. Sometimes it's because she's bored. Mostly it's because she wants you to be OK with getting out and about. Nursing is public is a piece of cake, although I did walk back to the car the other day rather than nurse on the bench in front of the tavern. We go to the library and bookstore, Target, Fred Meyer, the farmers' market, and the dog park. Daddy likes REI and the mall. We both like to carry you in the Ergo. Unless you are starving (this happens hourly), you are pretty adaptable. Everybody tells us how cute you are. And I think they are being honest. :)

I officially have the smallest wardrobe in the house, At this point, I'm not sure if you or Daddy have more clothes. There is something very wrong with this equation. But it's hard to buy clothes when their breastfeeding potential is of primary importance.

You are my sweet, my most precious, my favorite little boy. Just like I sing to you in the songs I make up.

Love
Mommy

PS Don't panic grandmas. I'll post pictures once Kevin puts them on the computer.