My dear Jude,

It is now 3:30 a.m. on December 9th, 2010. You are on the cusp of your third birthday; bright eyed, smiles abound, you’re speaking in full sentences and have no qualms about expressing your likes and dislikes. You sleep peacefully in our makeshift bedroom at Grandma and Grandpa’s Virginia home overlooking the water. I, on the other hand, awoke concerned that perhaps the reason you were moody today was because you’re dehydrated or because Melissa allowed you to watch too much T.V. or maybe you consumed copious amounts of candy unnoticed. The worries are endless. Let’s face it- in my eyes, nobody will take care of you the way I will.

You can focus for about thirty minutes at a clip. Whether it’s engaging in a game of Legos, riding your tricycle, springing back and forth on your plastic horse or “helping” mommy rake leaves, you perform each task with precision and great concentration. You love a series of books called Fisher Price Little People, or to you better known as “The Jude Books” as they feature a little boy uncanny in appearance to yourself. On each page, the inevitable question arises of, “Where’s Jude?” and you locate “Jude” with your index finger accompanied by an assured, “Jude and Froggy right there!”

You’ve been potty-trained since the summer after we moved from Oregon and I wasn’t working for the first month. We spent much of the summer canoeing across the lake, watching the then young swan family, to the swimming pool where you made friends and enjoyed endless hours outdoors in what would have otherwise been oppressive humidity. Your bronzed skin was envied by many, particularly given the contrast with your baby blues.

You were attacked by a swarm of bumble-bees this summer whose nest under the patio was disrupted by your tricycle riding. As a result, at the pool, upon spying a flying insect you would launch into a Torrets-like panic, screaming, “NO BEE! NO BEE MOMMY! IME OUT BEE! IME OUT!”

Today, in the early chilly mornings as we pass farms, open expanses of land and the occasional cow, horse or tractor before entering the commotion of Fredericksburg, we discuss your family or animals, colors or shapes. You love listing your friends and family. Recently, you memorized everyone’s “real” names. With a little prompting, you’ll recite that Daddy’s name is Matt, Mommy’s name is A-nessa, Mimi’s name is Sus, Poppy’s name is Scurve and Grandma’s name is Janet. We’re still working on Grandpa’s name. We typically call Daddy on the way to Melissa’s house to say good-morning too.

Any worries about only children becoming entirely ego-centric and antisocial are put to rest considering you spend most of your day in the company of four other children, ranging in age 1 to 4. You say, “Baby Jude brother” when discussing the youngest of the quartet, Landen or simply “Baby”. Gabby, the eldest, is “my Gabby”, the recipient of your undying affections. You relish interactions with your peers.

You adjust amazingly well to any situation as long as you feel loved. Whether it’s going with your Daddy for a week out of the month or socializing with “new friends” at a wedding, you’re eager for interaction and quickly befriend both young and old.

Other times, you enjoy relaxing with Mommy, especially following an arduous work week where we’re away from the house sometimes up to 12 hours at a time. I tell myself that it’s worth returning to school for my Master’s degree in spite of the financial hardship, in part because we’ll have more time together on a daily basis. Somehow it just doesn’t feel right to be separated from my best boy from the time the sun rises until the moon is shining brightly amid a midnight sky.

I don’t know how people raise their children having other people essentially raising them. This situation is temporary, I tell myself. If there were any sense of permanence, I would have to reassess my parental obligations against a barometer of what is necessary in life and what is needed to be done.

Guilt about splitting up with your father will not be a motivating factor in how I interact with you. I will do my best to not enable but guide through example. You’ll inevitably be well-loved and cherished. No matter my troubled past with your father and his family, they provide love, stability and unconditional acceptance. Virtues that I cannot say were espoused during my tumultuous childhood after my mom, your grandmother, died when I was five.

I never want you to experience the sting and wounds of feeling inadequate by those who are supposed to buffer all negativity from the outside world. My love for you is not based upon your behavior, my personal whims or the gravitational pull of the Earth- it is unwavering and everlasting. You, in the words of Grandma Janet, are my heart.

When you were born, I desperately believed and naively hoped that my dad, your estranged Grandfather, would fall in love with you as I had, stop drinking and become involved. In retrospect, I now realize that because my dad never felt worthy of love in his own life and daily interactions, he consequentially is incapable of giving of himself beyond a superficial facade. A quote that has stayed with me since age 16 upon reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower, “You accept the love you think you deserve.” In short, you deserve nothing but love and quite frankly I don’t want to subject you to people who are unable to provide you with just that.

Recently, I met up with my friend Alex who lost her mother when she was two to cancer. Because her mother left her no notes, she questioned whether her mother loved her as a baby. My response was that the person she is today is a testament to her mother’s affections. A sense of security and feeling validated, even as a baby and a toddler, ultimately shapes the psyche and development of a person years to come. Children who grow up amid chaos and depravity do not trust enough to smile at a stranger or feel confident in the integrity of their own spirit to demand more out of life than the, at times, short deck of cards dealt to them.

I am far from a perfect mother. Many a time, I have lost my temper and shouted at your in sheer frustration. I have spanked you then cried with along you. You’ve heard me use a smattering of R-rated profanities. There have been a few nights I didn’t brush your teeth before putting you to bed and the occasional stop at McDonalds when I’m just totally drained and unable to even contemplate making dinner (although this rarely occurs living with Grandma and Grandpa since she makes a 5-star dinner on a daily basis). Still, in your nearly three years of existence, I don’t think anyone could accuse me of not loving you with every atom of my being. If anything, in the five years of not being a motherless daughter provided me with a foundation to give love unconditionally.

Had I been raised solely by my step-mother and father, there is no doubt that I would struggle with appropriate ways to show that I love you. When, growing up under their inconsistent and emotionally abusive methodology, and we children a mere after-thought, “love” was manifested in constant criticism, negativity and an arbitrarily inconsistent set of rules easily violated. Your three uncles and I were taught that as long as we remained in Juliette’s good graces, we were free to do as we pleased be it go on an exotic vacation, be treated to a shopping spree or having college tuition paid. However, these tokens of acceptance always came at a price that, I found, typically compromised my sense of integrity and self. As I grew older and more independent, I was able to view the situation from a removed perspective and in doing so, could realize the extent of their damaging parenting.

I write these things now because later, these may be hard conversations to have with you. Likely, I will want to bury these sad years under a layer of happy memories. Rehashing them are painful not just for me as the recipient of the actions, but for me to share with you as my child whom I have tried to shield from such circumstances.

Your mouth slightly ajar resting upon the pillow, arm wrapped around your sippy cup containing water, long legs dangling like an octopus’ tentacles, toes splayed, you epitomize beauty and innocence. I look forward to the years ahead and I can barely comprehend that already three have passed since that blistery visit to the Norwalk aquarium that induced labor. Little did I know what a blessing lay ahead.

I love you,
Mommy.

Dear Jude,
This final entry will conclude my ongoing series of thoughts, ramblings and notes to you. I don't think that anything can quite prepare a parent for that first year of a child's life: the triumphs, the frustrations, the loneliness and the sense of humbling love and awe.
At times the early months felt endless, especially during the sleepless nights and continuous feedings, however, in retrospect it felt like it was just yesterday I was cradling your semi-bald head as your eyes glazed over, dilated, before dozing off into a blissful cat-nap.
Now, you're a streak of bottomless energy and you always manage to explore just about everything: the dishwasher, the recycling bin (you have a penchant for pretending to chug empty gallons of milk), Mommy's purse, all the nifty shampoos lined up on the bathtub, the toilet bowl water (yuck), anything I'm cooking, the refrigerator and even the innards of the fireplace.
Your first steps took place at the Kongslie's house on Sunday, January 18th when you decided to take it upon yourself to walk over to where I was holding some sort of ceramic cat. Nobody prompted you: you just decided to do it all by yourself.
Now, when I try to hold you up by your arms, prompting your feet to cooperate into walking mode, you usually scream and resort to crawling. I've learned that you like doing things according to your own will, not those of anyone else.
Other times, you grab the cordless phone only to utter, "Hiiiiiiiii" into the mouthpiece. You then proceed to press as many buttons simultaneously as possible, rending the poor person on the line nearly deaf.
I love your sense of independence already evident at just a year old. You don't like being told what to do (surprise, surprise) but your sense of self is also closely identified with us, your parents. Many a morning I wake to your arms stretched around my shoulders, cheek mashed up against mine, like a baby octopus. I listen to the sucking sounds as you work the binky, then you push yourself up and look into my eyes before offering me the plug. So loving.
Recently, you've also discovered how much fun it is to have control of objects that open and close, like a door. You love shutting the bedroom door, only to open it a moment later, hysterical with laughter over what an amazing feat you pulled off!
Your laughter begins low in your belly and bubbles its way up into your throat and out your mouth. I could subsist on your laughter alone were it edible.
You are not one for being alone, however, if you're engaged in either eating or an interesting activity involving water, you're entertained for quite some time. It’s entertaining watching you push your cart around the apartment, as you prefer to not bend your legs.
When you're studying something, you like to stare, your eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly ajar. Then, you move towards the object and try to make-out with it. You may have to tone this befriending tactic down once you’re in kindergarten.
You enjoy surrounding yourself by other babies and doting adults. You're the class clown, according to the teachers at your Montessori school.
The days of formula behind us, you’re capable of consuming entire meals, milk out of a sippy cup all while sitting in a big-boy chair, not just a high-chair.
For the first time, I paid full fare for you at the Children’s Museum, as you’ve surpassed the one-year mark.
Each day, I feel you inching closer towards independence: walking today, running tomorrow, driving in years to come. Sometimes at night, once you’re deep in dreamland, I cuddle your limber body and feel your baby breath on my arm as I kiss your beautiful golden curls. You’re teaching me everyday about love, compassion and trust…and not to be fearful of a little toilet bowl water.
I love you from the bottom of my heart.

Love,
Your Proud Mama

What had originally been planned as a quick visit to LA for the
weekend quickly turned into an extended visit following my last day at
work on the 18th. I packed Jude and my bag for the short trip to
visit Grandma Shirley, Ray and other extended family only to learn
that Monday morning, en route to Portland, that the biggest storm in
40 years had struck the otherwise temperate city, shutting down all
major roads like clogged arteries.
Not that I'm complaining. Jude loved LA, being surrounded by Ray's
great-grandkids, all around the same age as he. Nicole, my 23 year
old cousin came over with her best friend and her friend's son Dylan
who is a tad older than Jude. Together, they scuttled about,
Dylan walking upright and Jude crawling on his knees and hands.
Each morning, Jude would awaken me by rattling the brass bedframe back
and forth while emiting a primal scream like Tarzan swinging about on his vine. We would then harass Grandma for a bit (she's easily excited and claims that she
doesn't need to take valium. If she doesn't need valium, then fish
don't need water and plants don't need sunlight, etc.) before heading
out along the manicured golf courses and parks surrounded by
clay-colored roofs.
On Christmas Eve, Ray drove through neighborhoods whose homeowners
compete with one another for the most decorated trees, roof tops and
houses, not to mention an array of Christmas lawn ornaments. One home
in particular looked shockingly like a gingerbread house. I
wondered if it was edible.
When a baby is nearly a year old, jingling a change purse and ripping
paper just doesn't suffice as a form of entertainment while on an
airplane. He'll toss the purse on the already littered floor and
just ignore the paper as if it say, "Really? You think I'm that
easily entertained, sucker?"
The squirming and back-arching infant weighs a great deal more, so
your arms feel like gumby after the flight. Jude hates to be
restrained in any shape, way or form, so I spent most of the "seatbelt
off" sign time allowing him to walk and explore the aisles in his new
"big boy shoes" from Grandma Shirley. At the Stride Rite, Jude fell
asleep in his stroller, feet sticking out so the saleswoman promptly
measured (size four, wide) and velcrowed on a pair of white tennis
shoes.
Aunt Steph offered a piece of advice concerning this matter and age. She adopted her then one-year-old daughter from China and to keep her entertained on the 20 hr flight back to the states, she resorted to stickers that inquisitive
fingers could peel on and off for hours at a time. Personally, I can
see Jude devouring the stickers, but if it keeps him occupied, I
really don't care.
Since becoming a parent, I've learned to prioritize greatly. Before everything was about my own comfort. For a typical plane ride, I would have included a book or two in my bag, a sweater, i-pod, gum, a less than 10 ounce bottle of water and maybe a
snack. Most of the ride would be spent chatting with fellow passengers or napping.
Now, it's not just all about Jude- it's all for him too. Bottles,
formula, juice, snacks (grapes, cubes of cheddar cheese and slices of
turkey-perfect), baby books with thick pages so they don't rip out,
car seat, stroller, clothes…The list could go on and usually does so
when you're in the airport, you look utterly disheveled and somewhat
loony hauling all that stuff around.
When we changed flights in Arizona, we had to walk from terminal A to
D to catch the connecting flight. I didn't bring a stroller, so I huffed and puffed, precariously balancing Jude while hauling a backpack, cosmic duffel bag and diaper-filled purse with the other arm. One singleton dressed to the nines looked
my way before remarking to her latte-sipping girlfriend, "I don't know how mothers
do it these days."
So busy was I rushing to the gate that I didn't notice Jude toss
his bottle. Recently, he's begun throwing things, just to see what
happens. He learned that glass shatters on Ray's stone tile kitchen
floor while in LA.
Anyhow, I realize an hour into the second leg of the journey that
there's no bottle and that he's thirsty. Trying to give Jude sips of
a waterbottle results in him gagging and sputtering out liquid then
you and he are drenched and the water is empty before he's ingested
any.
So, I took a big swig of water, then popped a coffee straw (think
really small and narrow) between my lips before squirting the contents
into his heart-shaped mouth. Gross? Definitely. Did it work? Yes, and that's all
that matters. I suddenly a kindred spirit with mother birds who lovingly regurgitate half-digested contents of their meal into the squawking babies' mouths. Not that I would go that far-
Or would I?
Once in Florida, surrounded by half a dozen potential babysitters, the
days melted into one another and somehow Christmas squeaked by amid
all the sunshine, reading and beach time.
Tomorrow we're visiting the East Coast and sending home our light
clothes in exchange for heavier ones.
Last year this time I was just praying he would come...five days and counting!

Just shy of his first birthday, Jude has transformed into a wielding Quazi moto with his wild blond fro and equally adventurous escapades. While bathing, one must pay particular attention otherwise he will manage to snatch every shampoo bottle and try nursing them. Although the soap’s acidic flavor is anything but sweet, he never seems deterred and can be found nursing Bumble & Bumble or a personal favorite, the lavender scented Johnson & Johnson bedtime bubble bath.

Speaking of baths, one morning I was taking a shower as Jude was munching away on some cheerios. I heard him toddling over to the bathroom, pausing to roll the fun toilet paper dispenser and explore in a few vanity drawers, then to the shower. Silence. A moment later, the curtain slides open and a giggling, rosy-cheeked baby is staring at his mommy. “Hi Honey!” I shouted over the spray of the water as I instinctively covered my private parts. Curtain slides back. Closed. Seconds later, pulled back again, water spraying across the bathroom and giggling ensuing…This activity lasted until I called for Matt to take Jude as the floor was rapidly transforming into a flood zone.

Jude knows what he likes, and doesn’t stop until he obtains his object of desire. Before, the philosophy of “out of sight, out of mind” ruled, but that has given way to an excellent memory that never forgets where I hide things. He is determined and isn’t afraid to show frustration when things don’t go his way. Unfortunately, it seems he is very similar to both of his stubborn parents.

One development I particularly enjoy is Jude’s ability to imitate and copy sounds and actions. His pediatrician informed me that we need to start brushing his teeth- even those four hard-to-reach back molars. At first, when I attempted to stick the brush in his mouth, Jude pitched a fit. I quickly learned that when a demonstration is provided- “See Jude, Mommy is brushing her teeth. Uma ham ijaihe nkano Jude?” – he’s highly inclined to repeat the action.

Ditto for exploring all things Mommy and Daddy use. Just last night, he climbed into the dishwasher and found a cup and immediately began “drinking” from it. I’m beginning to think he has quite the oral fixation.

Many people are now asking if Jude is beginning to walk. Well, while he enjoys pushing his block cart, but doesn’t quite understand the concept of bending his knees. Instead, he toddles about with his cart as though he recently received prosthetic limbs- stiff with no bounce.

Tuesday afternoon, I managed to obtain court-side seats for the Portland Trailblazers game. Our usual babysitter had a fever (later I learned she was hospitalized for dehydration), so we desperately called around until one kind-hearted friend signed up for Jude duty. It was only on the way to her apartment as we navigated our puttering car around on the frosty streets that I began to worry that he may become distressed over being in a new environment, similar to what happened when we first brought Jude to daycare. Much to my relief, upon arrival, Jude barely glanced back at us before heading off to play with Sadie, a sweet silky black lab/hound. “Later guys!”

After the game (Porter’s #30 was retired and we beat the Kings!), we arrived back at the apartment only to find Jude wide-eyed and cheerful having covered every nook and cranny of their home. Erica informed me that he ate (“devoured” was the term she used) all his dinner of sweet potato, beef and carrots, then “fed” Sadie and carried on with a little more exploring. Even though it was nearly 10, Jude showed no signs of slowing down until he was strapped in his carseat, blissfully asleep in the warmth of the heated car.

Portland also had its first snowstorm last Sunday, which was certainly exciting. We woke to a blizzard and virginal white, pillowy layers of snow, dulling sharp lines and dulling all colors. Although Jude greatly resembled the brother in “A Christmas Story” with his down snowsuit, he was certainly guarded against the cold. A neighbor loaned us his snowboard and Jude enjoyed his first “sled ride” down the backyard hill. One time he fell off the snowboard and gracefully rolled down the hill like the making of a snowball, all the meanwhile smiling.

My last day of work was on Thursday and I’m looking forward to spending lots of holiday time with Mr. Jude.

With his long, curly locks and oval visage, Jude is quickly transforming into a blond, nano-sized Ringo Star. His vocals aren’t so great but at least he’s got the look. As he inches closer and closer to his first birthday, I take note of his personality shining through with each passing day. For instance, on Sunday, Jude was in a cranky and irritable mood while eating dinner. We had to turn him around in his high-chair to face the sliding glass door leading to the balcony because each time we tried talking to him, Jude groaned, arched his spine and let out a banchee howl. Quickly, we discovered that Jude needed his alone time, away from our constant inquiries.

Another thing- he absolutely adores his daycare. Jude still clambers over his pals to reach me at the swinging door when I come for lunch, but the difference now is that if I stay to sing songs and play, Jude completely ignores me! The other babies toddle over to play catch or poke my face or just to sit in my lap, but Jude continues riding on the honk-honk car or on exploring the carpeted crawling area with a slide.

Jude still clings at times, especially when meeting older men with long, white beards and funny hats. Matt snapped a picture of me, Santa and Jude mid freak-out while on a Polar Express Holiday train; arms raised spastically, lips opened to expose 360 degrees of mouth, eyes crescent-shaped, cheeks rounded. Santa appears as jolly as can be, totally oblivious to the havoc his very presence caused. My arms are wrapped around Jude, as I try to temper my whooping laughter while other mothers looked on, likely condemning me for being the sadistic mother that I am.

On Saturday, OSMI offered $2 admissions, so I emailed a friend I’d met through a Portland new mom’s website. She arrived with her husband and baby boy. The only difference with this couple, or rather similarity to us, was that they were also just 25. It was comforting to be able to discuss upcoming concerts and teething in the same breath, without having to limit topics on either end due to either age differences or childless friends who can’t quite relate to having all the outlets in your apartment covered by plastic plugs or waking at 6 a.m. seven days a week.

We all seemed to get along well and with promises of going snowboarding soon and then camping excursions during the summer, we said goodnight after a few hours at the museum. I admired how they drove across the country with the baby and now she’s taking night classes to get a master’s degree, just how I will as of January. If anything, I hope we can build supportive friendships where we can genuinely say, “No, I really do know what you’re going through!”

Another reason why Portland is so great- there’s a smattering of fun activities to do that are relatively inexpensive on any given day! I always reference the free monthly Portland Metro Parent to scope out activities for the weekend. Falling short of scheduling every waking moment, we always do activities that we can all enjoy, but never get around to all the various opportunities. I’m always telling Matt that in my opinion, Portland is the ideal city to live if one doesn’t have a job. There’s just so much to do!

Tonight, we’re going to decorate our Christmas tree and hope that Jude doesn’t munch on any ornaments in the process. One year, I do recall my brother William devouring a plaster pretzel when thinking it was real!

Since I last wrote, it seems there has been a recent baby boom. Friends and family alike, lots of babies have been born, especially of the male persuasion. Although I have tender memories from those early days, there is no way I am aching to return to the sleepless nights, sore nipples and endless crying. It seems Jude is quickly evolving from the helpless, passive infant stage into the little boy/toddler era.
Not that I don’t miss the baby stage- actually, I miss his baby breath because now if I forget to brush his teeth, he gets stinky breath just like the rest of us- but I’m just loving how inquisitive and interested Jude is in everything. He now “answers” the phone, pressing buttons simultaneously and cooing into the mouthpiece. When music plays, he claps his hands to the beat and he can mimic sounds and gestures. When he returned from New York last night, sleepy and smiley, he sat cross-legged on my bed and double-fisted a banana. Afterwards, he alternated sucking on an orange peel (don’t ask), the banana and a passifier. At one point, Jude tried shoving all three in his mouth. After gagging and nearly regurgitating, he tearfully opted to stay faithful to the mushy banana.
Blond ringlets forming at the base of his neck and behind his ears, I study my son as he sleeps peacefully at night. Usually the side of his face squashes his voluptuous lips, allowing them to part just so a hint of baby teeth are visible.
Recently, we found him sifting through the overturned garbage, shoving discarded contents into his mouth. Before that, he managed to swipe some coal from the fireplace. Even though this stage means that it’s important to watch him with extra vigilance, I love seeing what he’ll get into next. Indeed, Jude’s mental “door of perception” is wide open, absorbing the world around him with wonder and awe.
Because I had to work, Matt brought Jude to New York for Thanksgiving. In all honesty, you don’t realize how draining a baby can be until they’re gone! For a day and a half I soaked in a tub and read a book cover to cover, something I haven’t done since pre-pregnancy days. Then, I treated myself to two movies. Afterwards, I perused Powells bookstore until it was late at night, without caring to keep track of the time. The days felt decadent, but above all, I was ultimately grateful to have a bit of “recharge time”.
Too often, in my opinion, there’s too much pressure put on women to always be with their baby. Even when I meet up with a friend for the occasional drink or even more occasional dinner sans Jude, I experience a great deal of guilt. A nagging internal voice chastises me for missing out on Jude, particularly because I’m at work full-time. However, for the past four days even though I missed him, I knew he was well-loved and probably getting spoiled rotten by his adoring fan-club extended family in New York.
One of the more sobering parts to Jude developing is the realization that he’s going to get hurt and that I can’t always protect him 100%. For instance, one night he was toddling about and tripped on his sweatpants. A moment later, blood gushed from a slit on the top of his mouth after his face connected with an exposed corner of a chair. Short of destroying all pointy furniture and living in a giant bubble, it’s inevitable such things will happen.
As a mother is it painful to witness your offspring hurt- be it nearly 11 months or 11 years old or 111. Now, I have insight to the plight of mothers who wring their hands watching their children go face-first down slides, or the first time driving without an adult or going off to college. The mothers who watch their children go off to fight in the military- I cannot imagine their anguish, but my heart goes out to them. The more independent Jude becomes, the less control I will exert over him.
Jude, if you read this as an adult, I hope that as your mother I have provided you with the necessary tools to allow you to make own decisions and live up to choices responsibly even when you have made a mistake.
I will always be here to support you- I already know that I’ll be your biggest fan in whatever you pursue in life- but I don’t want to make decisions for you or pick up the pieces when you make a poor choice.
Similar to the Chinese proverb, “Give a man fish and feed him for a day but teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime,” I hope I can teach you that I’ll support you through thick and thin but that I have to let you sometimes learn the hard way: by making mistakes and learning through consequences.
If I bundled you up and never put you on the ground, it’s true you’d never fall. But it’s also true that you’d never learn to walk.

This weekend was like a diamond in the rough: a most beautiful and spectacular two days amid two weeks of grayness and intermittent rain. Saturday was devoted to exploring Forest Park, the largest of its kind nationwide within city limits. We explored perhaps five out of the 5,000 miles of land, stopping to admire the clear views of the glacial Mount Hood then Mount St. Helens in Seattle as well as the twin peaks ofMt. Batchelor.
On Sunday, my friend from high school, Mark, another recent Portland transplant, called to tell us about Dirty Birdy 5K mile run at Sauvie’s Island. Another gorgeous day, Jude observed boats speeding alongside us once we drove onto the island, then the enormous gathering at one of the local organic farms.
Many running teams were decked out in outrageous outfits, from the Super Mario Brothers (Luigi, Mario, the Mushroom and Yoshi) to Thing 1 and Thing 2 to a team in spotless white. Jude laughed and clapped his hands to the music as we socialized and met various friendly folks.
Unfortunately, I was told that due to all the mud, I wouldn’t be able to stroll Jude in his joggling stroller. Luckily, one of Mark’s non-running friends volunteered to watch him. Later, she told me that Jude grinned watching people hurl themselves into a big mud puddle toward the end of the race. The white team, in particular.
After the race, Jude and I chowed down on complimentary burgers and turkey dogs then watched real pigs stuffing themselves too. Jude stared, mouth ajar, as the rotund pink creatures rummaged around their pen in search of food. I noted that pigs have really long eye-lashes, seeing them up close and personal.
Jude napped as we drove back to Portland, again admiring the volcanoes in the distance, and stopping for drinks at an outdoor seating pub. We met another baby, Jack, with big blue eyes and black hair just like his dad, sitting at the table across from ours. By the time they got up to leave, we had a phone number for future playdates.
All along Jude was on his best behavior, clapping his hands-his latest accomplishment-and shaking or bobbing his head when hearing a catchy beat. Not once did he cry or fuss at all.
Speaking of new things, Jude is learning sign language at school! The first time he signed for “eat”, I didn’t quite catch on to what he was doing, although I understood from his growls that he was hungry. The next time, I actually saw one of his teachers ask another baby if she was hungry while signing. The teacher, the same one that endearingly refers to Jude as “Spazzy Baby” told me that they use sign language because babies develop motor skills faster than verbal ability.
Jude’s motor skills are certainly working well- whether climbing up on furniture, pinching my arms or howling like a banchee as he shakes the metal bed frame, he’s certainly motoring along.
Some babies at Jude’s age have developed a penchant for a particular stuffed animal or a blanket. With Jude, he loves his toothbrush and hairbrush. I frequently find the toothbrush on the floor of the car or even at his daycare because he refuses to surrender it after leaving the bathroom. Like the toothbrush, he adores his hairbrush and enjoys alternating the two against his tongue to experience the textures. If I didn’t know better, I would think that Jude embodies the interests of a typical toker.
Strangely enough when it comes to eating, he now refuses to devour anything on the spoon. First, he must test its topical qualities by mashing the food against his hands, then rubbing a bit on his face and hair. After the initial skin and hair test, then he can eat.
Never a dull moment in our lives...