The Dawn of the Personality

There is this moment when a baby makes the transition from blob-in-your-arms to terror-on-the-floor.  For the majority of their first year, babies are fairly black and white.  They are 1) easygoing or 2) not easygoing.  That's about it.  For the most part, barring any developmental challenges, they all smile, they all poo, they all laugh and they all melt your heart.  And you are sleep deprived, but you love the blob, so you are happy about it. 

Or you are drinking coffee by the gallon, so you're happy about that.  Either way, it's nice. 

Here's the way my blob started:


And here's what my blossoming wobbler looks like now:


 So I love her.  Oh my gosh, do I love her.  And she's turning into this little girl, and as she grows, I'm starting to see who she is.  And I'm already planning an entry for her birthday (end of April), so I'll do my best to contain myself here....but suffice it to say that being Adelai's mother has completed me.  Being a mommy to a girl is inexplicably full circle. 

She's now 11 months old, and we've entered the phase where limits have to be set.  It's pretty interesting when this happens, because it reveals so much.  The limits aren't anything horrible - the Garlands are easygoing and we basically have rules around not putting electrical stuff in your mouth, not playing with knives...you know, the basics.  And we do our best to not torture the animals, so we frown on putting thumbs into the eye sockets of the dog and cats.  But other than that?  The world is your oyster, Garland child.  Do some damage. 

When Chase hit this moment and we said "no, Chase", he slowly put the offending object down and looked at us....for like 10 minutes.  And his chin may have quivered a bit, but it was more a sense of pondering...as if he had a litany of retaliation, but his one word of "ball!" wasn't going to cut it.  So he remained pensive.  And 4 years later, he's still pensive and I'm waiting for the day when he unleashes all these ideas and I'll be hit with a wave of deep thoughts.  It's coming. 

When Justin was told no for the first time, he took the offending object and slammed it on the ground as hard as he could and then hit me.  Need I say more?  It's yet to change.  When we play baseball and he misses 3 balls in a row, he hits the bat on the ground and does a toddler version of cussing himself out.  Chris and I have to constantly help him to sooth himself.  He's got a hair trigger temper and he always has.  We are trying to learn how to patch holes in the wall now so that we can be prepared.  It's coming. 

So Adelai?  Today I came upon her putting part of the computer cord in her mouth.  And I swear, I just quietly said "Adelai, no..." from across the room.  And I'm not even joking, she turned around, made eye contact, dropped to the ground and burst into tears.  And it wasn't the kind of tears wherein the child can recover.  This was the kind of tears where life has ended, the soul has been mortally wounded and there is no hope for redemption.  She. Was. Devastated. 

I scooped her up in my arms and she layed her head on my shoulder (a rare moment these days since she's so interested in the world) and literally sobbed.  Snot on my shirt, tears running down her face...sobbed.  For two minutes.  And I kept saying "baby, it's okay! I love you. It's okay." But she just cried and cried and cried.  She eventually calmed down, but now the computer cord is like kryptonite and she won't come within 10 feet of it. 

It just cracks me up.  Maybe she inherited my terror of getting in trouble.  But then it seems Justin inherited my temper.  And it also seems Chase inherited my affection for thinking for hours.  So where is Chris in the genetics? 

They do seem to have a deep rooted love for doughnuts and chocolate milk.
 


I bet they will end up living in a van down by the ocean. 



The Opposite of Parental Joy

Being a parent?  Love it.  I really do. 

Something absolutely miraculous happens the moment you set eyes on that baby.  And it happens deeper every single time.  You look at this creature and realize that you'd literally jump in front of a bus for this little thing, and yet you don't even know if he or she likes chocolate.  Nothing matters.  This baby can do no wrong, and even if they do, you won't care.  It feels as if you can literally see the fingerprints of God all over this child. 

So here's the actual crux of the matter. 

Where do the fingerprints of God go when this amazing creature has explosive diarrhea all over his bed, and then comes to your bed and pukes all over your bed?  And then, this "blessing" has the audacity to look at you, look at the bed he's just massacred, and state in a particularly disgusted tone "Mommy, I don't think I want to sleep in your bed anymore."

That's right.  He really did say that. 

Just in case you are wondering how Chris and I handle that statement at 4:15am, both of us kind of laughed with a delirious quality to it, and said "well, that's completely understandable." 
Then he went to his bed and passed out (which had all new sheets on it already). 

So, a message to teenage Justin, from his mother:

Justin, if you are reading this, you vomited all over your father this weekend while he was sleeping.  And your father and I had to sleep in a smell which would be an easy win in the "worst smell ever" competition without any blankets because you had already pooped all over the other blankets in the house. 
And you gave me stretch marks when I was pregnant with you. 
And you jumped from high stuff to low stuff all the time, and I swear I gained a wrinkle and gray hair with each "trick" you did.  So now I look old.
So.  If I asked you to do the dishes, mow the lawn, pick up your sister, bring in the groceries, or take care of me when I'm old...by God, child, you better do it.  YOU BETTER DO IT.
And yes, that is a threat.  The phone number for DHS is (503) 378-6704. 
Love you.
Mommy