We're having a rough day here at The Commune (as your Grandmommy once called it, I don't think quite affectionately), as you turn 10 months old. You and Ella are both teething, with much drool and tears, nursing and snacking. There's not a lot we moms can do to comfort teething babies, just unsnap the nursing bras and pray (in my case to a Patron Saint of Mothers-on-the-Edge who looks a lot like Lois from Malcolm in the Middle) for patience. Unhappy babies make for tired, frustrated mothers, and I must admit to you that sometimes when my stores of patience are nearly drained, I fake it. I fake it til I make it--which works, more often than not. And, in the case of not, I can always hand you over to your Papa who is a great snuggler and planter of kisses--on dogs' snouts, on cats' necks, on baby's cheeks.
On the 26th of May, around the time the fireflies showed up at dusk for their yearly show of love, you turned 41 weeks and 3 days old; you have officially been outside of my body longer than I carried you inside me. And, indeed, you seem older to me, more of a person. You walk along furniture and hold cups to your mouth to take clumsy sips of water. You and your cousin interact more, are more aware of each other. You're even trying your hand at telling jokes--you've discovered we think it's funny when you press your face against the baby gate netting, and now you do it whenever you have an audience.
I love you, you little clown,