Okay, kid, this is the BIG TIME. Double digits. Methinks it’s almost time to buy you a razor. At the very least, your own blender. Chicks dig guys that bring their own blenders to parties. (At least I do.) Seriously though, what kind of cake should I make for The Big Day, now only two short months away? A vanilla angelfood cake in the shape of a puppy dog? Double fudge chocolate dressed as a fire engine? A cupcake tree of many different kinds, so you can try all the flavours of the Duncan Heinz rainbow? Because you deserve it, you know. You deserve the world on a platter in front of you. I want to make sure that, if you wanted to, you could GRAB THAT WORLD, AND EAT IT: squish it in your hand, mush it on your face, smash it up your nose. Have fun with it, and taste it all, Little Guy. Life is yummy, sweet, and best served with coffee. Strong, bold coffee, preferably from Mexico or Africa, because those are two regions of the world we really need to put our $1.79 behind. Like, yesterday.
This past month went by wayyy too fast, and you grew up wayyy too much while being out of the peripheral vision of mommy’s watchful eye. I jump off of the bus before it’s even come to a complete stop and begin to sprint towards Our Cocoon everyday with an urgent need to smell your belly and a secondary requirement to pee (why don’t I just go before I leave work, you may wonder? Because I can’t wait to get home to see you, that’s why. One minute extra with you is worth the bladder infection I am sure to shortly get.) You came back after a week at Grandma and Grandpa’s able to stand without holding onto anything for a good five seconds, and a baby baritone voice that you pull out whenever you want us to pay more attention to you. (“Mommy! Daddy! Quit watching Intervention on A&E and look at me put my wooden wrench up Gordie’s bum! HEUGGGGHHHH!!!!”)You’re also quite the explorer, opening drawers, crawling onto things, and just giving Daddy a run for his money generally as he spends his day trailing your path of destruction. Office jobs and arbitrary deadlines and surly supervisors frowning at your inappropriate use of the company fax? Puh-lease. Those things ain’t nuthin’ compared to what it is to spend a day managing your expectations. At least as a desk jockey you don’t have to wipe your boss’ butt. (It’s a fine line, I know.)
Five bucks paid to each and every reader of this blog. That’s what I’m going to wager that the next time I write your monthly letter I get to brag that you’re both walking and saying mama. And if not, hey kiddo, it’s your birthday present fund that I’ll be using to pay off my bookie. Think about it.
I love my best guy so, so, so, so, so, so much. So much that every time I want to scream obscenities over the phone at people across the river, throw my Blackberry against the wall in retribution for some irrational demand it’s making of me, or fall into a heap under my desk of whimpering incompetence, I look at your picture which I have beside my monitor and remember what’s really important. And then I put my big girl panties on and continue to fake it through the day, because the sooner I just take it like a man, the sooner I get to smell you. And that’s worth missing all the kick ass blender parties in the world.Love,
Mommy
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