Eight Months

Somewhere amidst the chaos of the past week, this one turned eight months old.

Yes, I still count her age in months. I might stop once I run out of fingers to count on, but I wouldn't bet on it.

At eight months, she is busier and grabbier than ever. It's not even remotely possible to eat while she sits in your lap, unless you wanted her to grab the spaghetti out of your mouth and smear it in your hair. In that case, carry on. While she's at it, she will pour your glass of water all over the place and steal your cheese.

Oh. Yes. This one likes cheese. A lot.

In fact, this one likes pretty much all food. Mexican is still stupid, but if want to pass her your Indian or Italian, that would be swell. Pizza is one of her main food groups, but so is yogurt, so don't accuse her of only liking junk. Unless you have chocolate cake, that is. In that case, she is willing to devote her life to junk.

Bottles are still the stupidest of all food sources.

She's sleeping slightly better, but all things are relative. "Better" just means I have completely given up on getting her to sleep without me at her side. She's in the midst of the separation anxiety phase, so she KNOWS if I walk away from her crib. It's the worst offense I could possibly commit, so her crib has become a really nice place for the cats to hide.

She'll be back. I'm confident that we're on the track to being a good sleeper.

It helps that after two solid months of ear infection after ear infection, she's finally healthy. She had a bout with whatever that stomach thing was her sister had, but it was short. Since then she has been the healthiest she's been since starting daycare (I say this as she coughs in her sleep. All things are relative.)

She now says "Mum mum mum mum mum mum" when I enter the room. She also DEFINITELY says "Lalalalala" when she's looking for Alexis. "Dadadada" is in her vocabulary as well, but it's not clear if she's saying it in association with that tall guy who can't stand to let her sit on the floor. She is forever in his arms, so I suppose he has earned the right to have a name.

Mila is a happy baby, except for when she's not. She knows what she wants and makes sure everyone around her knows as well. She's opinionated is what I'm saying, and it's really pretty fantastic.

Mila is eight months worth of fantastic.

Contemplating Fairness

"It's not fair," I thought to myself as I watched the $5 bill pass from one hand to the other.

It wasn't that I didn't understand. I did. We were very different kids. While school came easy for me, he struggled. He had to work twice as hard as everyone else due to learning disabilities and lots of physical challenges. But, still. It wasn't fair.

$5 for that lone "A" on his report card.

I had "A" after "A" after "A" on mine. Yet, I sat there empty-handed. I didn't get rewarded for my grades because those grades were expected. Anything less was considered a failure.

In my brother's case, failure was expected. Anything above that was reason to celebrate.

Alexis has no comparison. The age gap means she won't ever look over at Mila and wonder why she is or is not rewarded for grades. She doesn't seem to know that some kids get money for good grades or that parents far and wide are trying to figure out the magic formula for encouraging their kids to try harder.

She gets "A" after "A" on her report card. It's expected. It's so expected that when she once had a 96% in Reading, I emailed her teacher. "She's slipping because she's bored. Make it harder for her." The email worked and Alexis shot up to a 100% again in no time.

Is it fair that Alexis gets nothing for good grades other than a verbal "Good job" and such? Or should we be doing something? $5 per "A" isn't happening unless we opt to give up dinner for a week, but what is reasonable?

What do you do, smart people who live in my computer?

Fearless

In many ways, parenting is simply a series of opportunities to pretend that you're fearless. You get to act like you weren't in a panic the first time the baby sleeps more than three consecutive hours. You look around nonchalantly the first time the toddler nearly falls from the top of the stairs. You smile and nod like everything is cool the first time your kid rides a bike. And the first time your kid wanders into the world unescorted? It's all good. No fear here!

It is all an act, of course. There is no such thing as a fearless parent, and that's partly because kids spend a great deal of energy trying to scare the crap out of their parents.

Go ahead and take my heart rate each time Mila pulls herself up on some furniture. I am absolutely convinced she's going to fall and crack her skull open. So, while my face may seem calm, I AM FREAKING THE HELL OUT.

See also: Mila is mobile. Like, for real mobile.

Her being mobile is scarier than anything that Hollywood could craft. I walk around with my heart in my throat all of the time because electrical cords, small toys, dogs, all of the things. There are so many opportunities for her to give me a heart attack.

Mornings are fun, is what I'm saying.

This morning I carefully placed a happy Mila on her playmat in the bathroom, just like I have nearly every day of her short life. That's where she hangs out while I shower. It's the place that makes her very happy. There are toys, things that light up, and all sorts of fun friends.

This morning, however, she was having none of it. Just as I dumped a handful of soap on a poof, Miss Mila started yelling. The yells quickly escalated to crying and then there it was. She immersed herself in a meltdown.

I could only sort of hear it, fortunately. Our master bathroom shower is inside the water closet. It's a tiny little shower that is straight up ridiculous, but sometimes that tiny shower that is inside a room inside of another room is a nice buffer from the real world. I mean, I felt bad that Mila was upset, but I knew she was safe. And I could only kind of hear her.

Despite the closed door and running water, I did in fact hear the moment when Mila decided to take action on her anger. She continued to cry and yell, but I could hear her moving. Closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Even though I knew she was doing it, the moment when she pulled the bathroom door open and yelled into the shower? TERRIFYING.

Then it got worse.

She spotted the toilet.

That right there. THAT is the fastest I can rinse conditioner out of my hair. I managed to scoop up the little troublemaker just milliseconds before she could reach her tiny fingers up to pull herself closer to the toilet bowl.

Thank goodness.

It was terrifying.

But it wasn't as terrifying as a little moment that happened on Friday. On Friday, Alexis greeted me as I entered the house after a long day at work. She wore a grin on her face and was bouncing with excitement. "Momma! Guess what! Guess what! I got my recorder in music class today!"

Parenting is simply a series of opportunities to pretend that you're fearless.

(Pass the earplugs, please.)