This Two Shall Pass

Westley has been practicing being a two-year-old for months now: saying "no" as often as possible, throwing the occasional temper tantrum, insisting on doing things himself, and otherwise showing his independence from Rob and me. But on Halloween, the eve of his 23rd month, he was in rare form.

Nothing either Rob or I did for him was right, and he let us know it. Loudly. He rejected every suggestion of food, clothing, and entertainment. When left to his own devices, he ran maniacally around the living room, shrieking delightedly for a few minutes before collapsing into the couch, completely miserable.

I'm usually pretty good about taking the philosophical stance on crazy-Westley days. I remind myself that everything with him is temporary. And most of the time, it actually helps me gain some perspective on the situation and not lose my cool entirely, no matter how certain I am that this time, I really, truly am going to go insane.

But Halloween was different. We had plans to spend the afternoon with friends, tickets to an evening event, and demands from far-away family members for lots of pictures of Westley in costume. And when Westley refused to eat anything I offered him, and refused to wear his costume, and refused to have his picture taken, I felt like punching someone.

This day is supposed to be fun, I told myself. But I felt angry and anxious, even after Rob kindly took Westley on a guys-only grocery-shopping adventure.

The day eventually redeemed itself, even though we had to cancel some plans on account of our crazy-child-who-also-went-down-for-an-unbelievably-late-nap. Westley got some fresh, less-crazy energy from spending time with my parents. Rob and I got some fresh, less-stressed energy from not having to fight Westley on whether dinner would be eaten.

"What was up with him today?" I wondered, crossing my fingers that everything would be different when we got up in the morning.

Rob shrugged. "He's two."

"Not even!" I started to imagine a whole year of manic-Halloween-devil-Westley.

"Maybe he'll get it out of his system early," Rob hypothesized.

I just hope this really is as temporary as I try to convince myself it is. Because I don't know how much more Halloween I can take.

.....................................

22 Months, 1,000 Words

...visions of vocabulary lists dancing in his head.

Every day when Westley wakes up from his nap, he says something I've never heard him say before. On Monday, it was "raw." He was referring to the broccoli ("brock") I was cutting up with the big kitchen knife ("Nye! Beeeg!").

Rob doesn't believe that Westley says over a thousand words. But if it's not that many, it's pretty damn close. I sat down to write out a list--actually write one, with a pen. My hand cramped up around 200. And I was nowhere near done.

It's really too bad that "awesome" has lost its meaning. Because listening to my child speak this brand-new language of his is just that: Awesome. This little boy who, two years ago today, was still all curled up inside me is now speaking to me. And most of the time, I understand him. How is that even possible?

How does he decide what to say? I know he picks up on words that I say, and he's more likely to say the funny ones ("Jeeze!" is a favorite expression). Of course he can name all of his favorite foods and beverages, and he has names for all his toys. But why does he know what a crow is? And how come he has a name for every color but white? He seems to have linguistic priorities, but what they actually are is a mystery to me.

Every waking, with its new words, is a puzzle piece. I get a clearer picture of Westley each day: what he knows, what he likes, and especially what he thinks about. So as his vocabulary expands, we're both learning something new.

.....................................

21 Months, and I'm Kind of Over the Whole "Months" Thing

Some part of me will probably measure Westley's age in months forever. He was born on the first of December, so it's hard, when a new month rolls around, not to think, Westley's another month old today. On the other hand, I feel like I'm starting to sound ridiculous when I tell people how many months old Westley is.

"What is he, about two? Two-and-a-half?" the guy at the fruit market asks.

"Not quite. He'll be 21 months on September 1st."

See? Clunky. Rob has side-stepped this problem completely by telling people, "He'll be two in December."

So are we really at that point? The point where we give the "two-in-December" answer as opposed to the "20-months-and three-weeks" answer? I feel like maybe, by not reading the What To Expect books, I missed learning the proper parental etiquette on this one.

We're certainly out of the stage where the changes from one month to the next are clearly visible in (zillions of) photographs. But when I reflect on the past four weeks, a lot has changed for Westley, the least of which is his hair length. He had his first real separation from me, and his first bout of vomiting. He uses a fork and a spoon easily (when he wants to). He speaks in sentences occasionally. It's crazy.

I feel as though I'm not so much counting up months, as counting down to two. Paving the way and preparing myself for the inescapable fact that my son--my tiny, baby son--is going to be two in December. Two!

But on the issue of answering the question, "how old is he?" I need my fellow babymamas to school me: when did you stop measuring your child's age in months? At what point does it still seem relevant, and at what point does it start sounding ridiculous?

---

Also, because I never pass up an opportunity to blog about being a mom who likes gettin' it on, you can now also find me at Sex and the Mom.

Today's question: have you ever been walked toddled in on? I have.

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20 Months: An Early Musical Tribute

I leave for the East Coast late tonight, which means I'll miss Westley's 20 month-iversary of life on the first of August. I've never been away from him for more than a night, and as much as I'm looking forward to seeing my friends, I'm wondering how it will go for my little dude.

After feeling ambivalent about breastfeeding for so many months, I'm surprised to find myself worried about what will happen when Westley can't nurse for five days. Is my going on vacation going to end up meaning a permanent vacation for my breasts (at least until the much-discussed Baby #2 arrives circa 2011)? I'm actually hoping the answer is no. The me of several months ago thinks I'm crazy, and I think Rob agrees with her. Regardless, my Avent manual pump and the last of a bottle of fenugreek capsules are stashed safely in my carry-on. I know Westley will be fine at home with Rob and my parents; I'm going to try to remember this, and relax and enjoy myself. And we'll see what happens with the breastfeeding.

In the meantime, my son is going to be twenty months old! How did that happen? Who sneaked in during the night and replaced my baby with this big boy?

Mall(rug)rat

Rob and I started calling Westley "Punky" pretty early on, and it's stuck. It's sort of a nickname for a term of endearment: "Pumpkin Pie" became "Punkin Pie," which then became "Punky Pie" or, more often, just "Punky."

Naturally, with a "Punky Pie" running around, we ended up with the song "Cherry Pie" in our heads all the time. We've been singing a modified version of the chorus for most of Westley's life, but I finally got around to finishing the song yesterday. I'm not sure if this means we'll sing it more or less often, but at least we can sing it from start to finish now.

"Punky Pie"

(to "Cherry Pie" by Warrant)

Healthy, cozy, tasty, awesome!

He's my Punky Pie

Warm drink of milk, such a sweet lil' guy

Looks so cute, makes his mama cry

Sweet Punky Pie

Nursin' in the armchair

Nursin' on the couch

Nursin' pillows come

With every seat in my house

Nursin' on the left side

Nursin' on the right

Dream about breakfast

Nurse all night, yeah

Nursin' when it's cuddle time

Nursin' when he's bitchin'

Baby cries, let down

And mom's boobs are itchin'

Going to work so

She's pumpin' it full-throttle

Dial up the suction

And fill up a bottle

I know he knows

That it's the best milk

Don't cover up 'cause

It's only breastmilk

He's my Punky Pie

Warm drink of milk, such a sweet lil' guy

Looks so cute, makes his mama cry

Sweet Punky Pie, oh yeah

He's my Punky Pie

Minute-time on the breast

Ten each side

Boy chows down

'Til the well runs dry

Sweet Punky Pie

Nursin' on the bus

Nurse while writing checks

Lyin' on your side

You can nurse and have sex

Folks say don't do it

At parks or stores

But my son's like, "Her milkshake

Is better than yours."

I know he knows

That it's the best milk

Don't cover up 'cause

It's only breastmilk

He's my Punky Pie

Warm drink of milk, such a sweet lil' guy

Looks so cute, makes his mama cry

Sweet Punky Pie, oh yeah

He's my Punky Pie

Minute-time on the breast

Ten each side

Boy chows down

'Til the well runs dry

Sweet Punky Pie

Nursin'! All night long,

Nursin'!

Pass the nipple cream!

Nursin' on the sofa

Nursin' on the floor

Nursin' so long

That my nipples got sore

Dad got a bottle

Even up the score

He said, "You ain't gonna nurse

On your Mama no more"

He's my Punky Pie

Warm drink of milk, such a sweet lil' guy

Looks so cute, makes his mama cry

Sweet Punky Pie, oh yeah

He's my Punky Pie

Minute-time on the breast

Ten each side

Boy chows down

'Til the well runs dry

Sweet Punky Pie

Sweet Punky Pie

Nurse him!

* * *

That's all, bloggy-folks! I'll be living off-the-Internet-grid until Tuesday. I'm hoping to come back more rested and less weirdly tanned. Truly. My nose and cheeks, my forearms up to about a three-quarter sleeve length (you know, for example), the tops of my feet are brown; the rest of me is glow-in-the-dark. I'm not a believer in tanning (bad for your skin, bad for your tattoos), but this is ridiculous.

.....................................

19 Months

I heard myself scream at you before I realized that my thoughts had moved to my vocal chords. Your face crumpled like paper. You cried, loud and hard. My little boy, banished from the park for gulping in big mouthfuls of pebbles.

Scooping stones out from around your molars for the second time in ten minutes, I had warned you, "If you eat rocks again, we're leaving." And you lay face down in the sand and opened your mouth and we left. You fought me all the way to the car, and once in your seat, you chanted your frenzied mantra, demanding milk--"Molk, molk, molk, molk"--and finally screamed at me: "MAMA!"

I screamed right back at you. I yelled at you to shut up. And I tried not to cry when you started crying. I was sure I could feel the weight of other parents' stares between my shoulder blades. Because none of them would ever tell their toddlers to shut up.

You slurped down the contents of your sippy cup as I drove us towards the drugstore (I had to take you somewhere calm, air-conditioned, sterile). Then you held the empty cup out, and quietly asked, "Molk?"

I spotted a grocery store on our right, and pulled into the parking lot.

***

Last night I dreamed that my baby had drowned.

He was so tiny, maybe two months old. I was in a giant swimming pool with him draped over my arm. I was talking animatedly to a beautiful blonde woman with a leading lady's body and a series of goofball expressions. There were dozens of other people in the pool, too. But no one seemed to notice that the baby over my arm was face down in the water.

I looked down and he was the same purple-blue Westley was when he was born. But he didn't grimace and try to cry like a waterbirth baby. He was just still. I walked to the edge of the pool and laid him down on the cement, while the beautiful woman I was with called frantically for someone who knew CPR.

I knew he was gone.

***

Dear Westley,

You are 19 months old today, which is the strangest, most awkward thing to say. "Nineteen months" doesn't sound like an age. I think I'll start telling people you're one-and-a-half when they ask. Or else I'll tell them, "Well, he thinks he's two."

We've been having a hard time these past few days, you and I. It's the terrible pre-twos. We both need more sleep than we're getting, I think. And we're both not getting it because our minds are too full. Your Dad and I keep having serious discussions about film theory, and moving, and our lives going forward, and you keep learning words and building your own sign language and trying desperately to make me understand you. Today you asked for a "bite" of my veggie wrap, and then another "bite," just that clearly. And then you told me it was "goo."

Every day I hear you say something you didn't say the day before. You know what an oboe is, and tell me when you see one. MaMay says you told her "jeans" while she was helping you get dressed. This morning you told the cat to "moo" when she was sitting in your seat. I know more words are coming soon, but I hate that I still can't understand you so much of the time. It's so hard to wait. (It's probably worse for you.)

I have to tell you, I've been kind of a shitty mommy here lately. I'm sure you've noticed. It's hard for me to reflect back your feelings and moods when my own are coming at me in giant tidal waves, changing like weather. I worry that I'm doing the best I can and that "the best I can" isn't good enough for you. You deserve a mother whose mind doesn't implode on her, who doesn't shout at you for opening the garage door or pulling her hair or chanting "molk." It probably doesn't look like it to you (actually, I don't know what you see--you seem to understand everything, oddly), but I'm trying to get better. I'm trying, Punky.

Even on the days when my vision is most swollen with depression, though, I want to see you. You're like a perfect book I can't put down, under the covers with the flashlight in the middle of the night. You're the best movie I've ever watched. And I can't believe I had anything to do with it. Nothing as incredible as you could have come from me. Maybe--just maybe--from your Daddy, but not from me.

Yours always,

Mommy

.....................................

18 Months

You had to have two shots at the doctor's office today. On your half-birthday. I think that stinks. You took it amazingly well. "Yay!" said the nurse. "All done!" And you clapped your hands, still crying, with fat tears streaming down your face. I held you close to to nurse for comfort, and you giggled and scratched your Band-Aids.

You're almost three feet tall, and you stand on your toes to be taller. You like to stretch up as tall as you can manage, and grab things you're not supposed to have. I'm glad you're testing your limits--I hope you continue to stand on tip-toe to reach the things you want--but it makes my job very, very hard. Too hard, I think sometimes. But then you help me mop up a puddle on the floor, or you hold your food out to share with me, or you say "baby" and cuddle your baby doll the way I cuddle you. And I think, Wow.

I don't really believe in reincarnation, but sometimes I think you've been here before. Either that, or you're the little boy who read the all baby books--read ahead even, so you'd be off to a running start when the next semester rolled around. You surprise me with your sweetness and overwhelm me with you much you know already.

One-and-a-half. You got here so fast. Slow down a little, monkey, and let me catch up for a minute or two. 

.....................................

17 Months

Dear Westley,

I taught you a gesture for "all done" kind of by accident when you were really teeny.  Arms thrust out to the side, back straight, penguin-like: "all done."  You still do it all the time.  At dinner a few weeks ago, you put your arms out to sign "all done."  Daddy asked you if you were all done, and you said, "Uh-huh."  He picked you up, and set your feet on the floor.  You took off running towards the bookshelf while your dad and I went back to eating.  Thirty seconds later, you came back to the table with a book and held it out to me.  I told you, "Honey, I'm still eating."  You did your little penguin-flap "all done" sign at me.  I don't know if you were reminding me that you were all done or telling me that I should be all done, but your dad and I are still laughing about it.

You make us laugh all the time.  Sometimes we just watch you run through the house, and we laugh because we can't believe you.  You're too cute, too sweet, too much.

Some days I feel like my head is going to explode.  Your energy and craziness move three times faster than my energy on my most energetic days.  All you want to do is be outside, exploring.  You can walk around and around the outside of my parents' house for what seems like hours.  You can walk for miles.

Riding in the car is almost never your idea.  You'd rather walk, thank you.  You're a lousy traveler, like me, and I can already hear the beginnings of "are we there yet?" in your grunts and fussing noises from the back seat.  

Today, we only had a short distance to drive from the fruit market to home, but you couldn't stand it any more.  And you wouldn't let me help you.  Nothing I offered--books, toys, pacifier, sippy-cup of milk, promises of "we're almost there"--helped you, and you continued to whine and fuss.  I felt the early-warning twinges of head-explosion, and decided you were punishing me: "You're making me crazy!  Is that what you're trying to do?"

"Uh-huh," came the reply from the back seat.

I love you like crazy, Monkey.

Mommy

 

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16 Months: A Musical Tribute

The Ballad of Westley O

(To the tune of "The Ballad of Sweeny Todd" by Stephen Sondheim)

Attend the tale of Westley O
His grin was wide so his teeth would show
He snatched the food off his Mommy's plate
And gleefully gobbled whatever he ate
He knew some tastes that few can know
Did Westley O
The daring toddler who eats beets.

He licked his chops at every meal
He worshipped seitan and outlawed veal
And on the plate he left not a smidge
No leftovers saved to be stored in the fridge
For Westley
For Westley O
The daring toddler who eats beets.

Savor and enjoy!
Westley, such a hungry boy.
Freely flow the milks of almond, rice and soy.

His chair was high, his reach was long.
With fruits and veggies he found no wrong.
The juice of carrots, and lots of greens,
An apple, banana, and two nectarines.
For sweetness he liked tangelo
Did Westley O,
The daring toddler who eats beets.

Often ravenous Westley was,
With aromas impressed he was.
Spoon from a jar, lick of a lid,
Westley liked flavors that nobody did.
Westley tasted and Westley chewed,
Like guy with more teeth he chewed,
Westley was cute, Westley was cuddly,
Westley's demands were not made subtly!
Westley!

Attend the tale of Westley O!
His favorite meals weren't the status quo.
He'd let you know what next he'll munch
But he wouldn't want to be late for his lunch

Not Westley
Not Westley O
The daring toddler who eats…

Beets…

.....................................

15 Months

Dear Westley,

A year ago, your favorite things to do were sleep, nurse, and stare quietly into your Dad's and my faces.

Now, your favorite things to do are walk so fast that you almost run, swing on the swings, help with the vacuuming, and climb up the slide by yourself and go down face first, laughing.

You do a lot of things you're not supposed to do. You bother the cats while they're eating breakfast. You try to plug things into the wall. You bite to show your anger. And you do things that you're not supposed to be able to do, really. It looks like your imagination is already at work. You make your clothes hangers into combs and stroke your hair with them, and you hold my calculator to your ear to talk on the phone.

You can see the things you want to accomplish, and get so frustrated when the world doesn't go your way. I wish you had more words. You understand so much language already. It clearly makes you crazy that I can't understand you as well as you do me. Your meaningful gestures seem to have partially fallen away in favor of wild hand-waving and high-pitched fussing. You throw temper tantrums. Sometimes I wonder if you're actually two.

MaMay pointed out some "Big Boys" playing across the creek the other day, and you smiled and puffed up your chest, as though to say, "I'm a Big Boy, too." And you are. You're my fuss-budget smarty-pants wise owl Big Boy monkey.

Love,

Mommy

.....................................

14 Months

Dear Westley,

You are recovering from your first cold. Until a few days ago, you had never been sick, ever. It was amazing and no one would believe me when I told them. "Not even an ear infection?" Not even an ear infection. And as colds go, this one isn't so bad. You have a runny nose, and there's lots of crying at bedtime, but that's it. I wish I could take some credit for this, but it's all you. You are some kind of superhuman child with a mutant immune system, I swear.

I missed your 13-month birthday, because it was New Year's Day, and I couldn't believe it was 2009. I'm sorry. I should know better by now, be more on top of recording your leaps and jumps, but I guess I don't, because I'm not. I think if I were to write down everything new you do and say, I would have writer's cramp by 10 AM every day. You really do change all the time. You discover a new food every day (spinach is a favorite). You talk and I realize "That's a new sound." You don't always nap, but when you do, I think you wake up taller.

You walk all the time now, which I still find incredible and adorable. You pick your feet up deliberately and march along, like a supermodel walking in second position.

I wish I had your energy and stamina. I try to keep up, but you leave me in the dust, always. I feel so sluggish around you, and I still don't know what to do with you a lot of the time. It's like The Runaway Bunny, only you haven't told what you're going to do in advance. I never know whether to be a gardener or a tightrope walker or a tree. Sometimes I think I'm not very good at being your mother at all.

But you still want to be with me. Tonight you flopped all over the mattress on the floor of your little room, cuddling me and kissing me, and putting your head on me pretending to sleep. You cry "Mama, mama" and nothing else when you're upset, and you shake your head "no" and hold on like a monkey when someone tries to take you away from me. I'm so lucky: to be showered with love from a sweet little boy, and I've done nothing to deserve it.

Love,
Mommy

.....................................

A Year and Amazed

Dear Westley Oliver,

You are one year and five days old today.

I remember your fifth day on the planet (your one-seventy-third birthday) as a few photo-sharp moments surrounded by blur. It was the first time you left the house. We took you to the doctor's office. ...And where was he born? "At home." A year later, it actually feels like home. Mostly because you're in it. We're a family now, hot-cold-just right, like three little bears in our basement apartment-cave.
I was always pretty sure I'd have a child some day, but I never imagined it would be you. You are a little punky-pie, a cuddle-bug force of nature ready to blow my house down with your joy and energy. You've been that way since you were inside me. One evening when I just sitting quietly, only a little pregnant, I had it flicker through my mind that you were my son. I put my hand below my belly button and some tiny, joyous vibration said, "Hi, I'm a boy!" Later, I dreamt about uncovering my tightly swaddled baby boy in the middle of a giant bed. I didn't know what to do, because I didn't think I was ready for a son. But it didn't matter, because you were ready for me.

You were born on Saturday morning before the sun came up, and then it snowed.

I couldn't believe that I was your mother. I didn't feel how I thought a mother is supposed to feel. Instead, I felt a huge force, pushing down on me and grounding me to the earth. I had to be strong. I was incredibly, entirely responsible for a precious life--your survival, happiness, everything--and I was afraid of what would happen if I did something wrong. Especially since I didn't know yet what "right" was for you.
But you wanted to be with me anyway, and you forgot about the times that I messed up. You always take me back, and I feel so blessed. Because you're the coolest little man I know. Really. There are lots of people that I love, but I'm CRAZY about you and only you. Sometimes I just have to hug you and hold on as long as you let me, just to remind myself that you're real.

Now I look at you and wonder if it's really been a year. It went by so fast, like everyone said it would, and sometimes it seems like you're moving faster than I am. I've been counting the months since you were born--because baby-time goes in months--but I feel like I miscalculated something. Nine months seems about right, but twelve? Not possible. You were just a tiny baby, swaddled and propped up against my legs, weren't you?

But when I think back over the months with you, all the holidays are accounted for, and all of the birthdays and anniversaries. It really has been a year.
I'm incredibly different now from the person I was before you were born. In fact, if you knew the person I was, I don't think you'd like me very well. I never charged down supermarket aisles, making race-car noises for my shopping cart. I didn't make nearly enough silly faces. I only occasionally noticed neighborhood dogs, or pointed out the many colors of things, or blew raspberries. Your delight reminds me to stop and be delighted, too. You've taught me so much about slowing down, being patient, experiencing joy. I know now what it means to cherish something.

I just don't know how I got so lucky.

MaMay used to tell me that I would understand when I had a child. It was never anything specific that I would understand, and it was almost a threat: "Someday, you'll be the mom, and then you'll understand." I hated that. How could it be that there was some secret knowledge only parents got? But I think I'm starting to understand, now...
I wanted to write you this letter on your actual birthday. I've been thinking about writing it since you were brand new. I wondered what I would have to say to you when we'd been together for a year. Now, I'm just so overwhelmed by everything that has changed in the past twelve months that it all seems too incredible to have actually happened to me in real life. In real time.

I think I'm always going to be a little bit behind you. I'm still getting used to the idea of this time, but you're owning being one year old. You love it! You're on the verge of walking and talking. You know the kitties by name and even try to play fetch with Ursula. You love to be outside; if you could be outside all the time every day, you'd be so happy you wouldn't know what to do. You want to touch everything, see it up close and find out how it works. You love to push buttons. Almost all music makes you dance, but you bounce up and down in time with Grandad's classical picks.

I'm contantly trying to catch up with you and all the things you can do. Sometimes you move so fast, and I'm afraid you'll get hurt before I even realize what's happened. I know I can't always protect you, but I'm going to keep trying to match your pace, because I don't want to miss a minute of you, duder. Besides, if I'm a little bit behind you, you know I've got your back.
Happy birthday, my sweet milky-milk monkey-breath.
Loving you bunches-and-bunches-to-the-moon,
Your Mommy

.....................................

11 Months

Dear Westley,

We've turned a corner, and it's dumped us out onto a rocky, bumpy street. I think you'll agree that things have been hard lately, dude. I'm having a hard time, and you've certainly been better. You're so busy now--growing taller by the minute, getting teeth, trying to walk, wishing I'd figure out your "words"--and it's driving you a little insane. You grunt at me and furrow your brow, and reach and fuss and thrash. I shake my head wonder what the hell to do next, wonder how I can possibly keep up when you're suddenly so needy and clingy and not-distractable. The baby who was still in my belly a year ago is becoming an opinionated, independent person. Every day, your "baby-ness" seems to fade a little as you test your world. And me.

You flop down on my lap and smother me with "kisses," which are really bites because you don't know better. You want one apple slice for each hand. You squirm and kick when I try to get you to nap, and you decide when bath time is over by climbing out of the tub yourself. You fight like hell when I have to put you in your car seat, and scream bloody murder when I try to change your diaper. When you gesture to something in the world and grunt, I guess a million things while you stare at me like "Really, woman? How can you be so stupid?"

I feel stupid a lot of the time. Because you change the rules on me! When I think I get it--I finally feel like I understand what you need--the old tricks stop working, the old soothing routine stops helping, and I sometimes cry right along with you, wondering if I'm ever going to understand you again.

Because I want nothing more than to understand you. I want to hear your thoughts, and know what you believe, and share stories. I want to know how you see the world. Sometimes I feel like I don't know much about you because you don't have words to describe your life, but you really tell me more about yourself every day. You love birds, and would very much like to hold one. You don't mind getting rained on, as long as it's only for a short time. Your favorite food is avocado. You're almost certainly left-handed. You can drink water from a cup but you'd rather shake the cup and throw your head back and laugh. You're incredibly challenging and incredibly wonderful.

It's hard, and even on the days when I don't like you, I still love you like crazy. I'm lucky to know you, West.

Love,

Mommy

.....................................

10 Months

Dear Westley,

You are ten months (and three days) old. You are in double digits, and it won't be long before we measure your life in years instead of months. I call you my Toddler Boy, even though you're not toddling yet. You crawl everywhere, sometimes faster than I can catch you. You would very much like to climb into the fireplace.

You pull up on everything, including me. You grab my hair like it's a hunk of rope and hoist yourself up. You continue to like every food I offer you, with the notable exceptions of flavored soy yogurt (plain is fine and dandy), applesauce (apple slices are where it's at), and apricots (not acceptable in any form). Recently, you turned some kind of corner with food and decided you knew how to chew. You would eat a whole banana by yourself if I let you.

You have six teeth coming in, practically all at the same time. It's making you one cranky-ass mothersucker. You're coping by being super clingy, and for the first time since you made your entrance, only Mommy will do. You want to hold me and cuddle with me and nurse and yank my hair, and you want to do it all the time. And if anyone else tries to hold you or comfort you, you cry and lean towards me. Of course, you resist and lean away when I try to comfort you, but you always wind up sinking down and relaxing into my arms.

I think I really do love you more every day. Your laugh is addictive. Sometimes I miss you when you're asleep. Even when you're clawing me with your talon fingernails, or pushing me away with all your strength, or squalling when I try to put a diaper on you. Even when you're being a bitchpants, you're my favorite person. And when you're grabbing my head and trying to kiss my cheeks, nothing can be wrong in my world.

It's a little insane how much I love you, dude. Seriously.

Love,

Mommy

.....................................

The Second Nine Months

Westley turned nine months old last Monday, and I've spent the week watching him and shaking my head. He's changing so dramatically and so quickly, I feel like I'm constantly behind, trying to catch up. This is the second half of our 18-month journey together.

Four Days Old
We take him out of the house for the first time. It's the icy middle of winter, and I desperately want him to wear a hat, but none of them fit. The hat I knit before he was born that looks like an eggplant and fits a grapefruit perfectly is way too big for the baby. A hat we received from a coworker is sized for a six-month-old at least. The only hat that comes close to fitting is the one that came with our birth kit. It's super-stretchy though, and keeps slipping up his forehead while he sleeps. I don't want to pull it down and disturb him.

We arrive at the pediatrician's office and are treated like royalty. Apparently, having a tiny newborn during cold and flu season means you're kept as far away from other patients as possible. The doctor asks how often he eats, pees, and poops, and how many hours a day he sleeps. I feel bad because I don't know. When we get home, Rob makes a Diaper Change Log (with Pee and Poop checkboxes) and posts it above the changing table, along with a pen on a string.

Feeding Westley is torture. He won't latch on. He just opens his mouth and shakes his head, looking for the nipple. "It's there," I coach him, squeezing my breast into an awkward sandwich-shape. "You got it, baby." But when he latches on, he pops back off almost immediately--and wails. Eventually--finally--my mother figures out to push up on his chin when he's in position, closing his mouth in a proper latch. She holds her finger under his chin for several minutes while he gets the hang of suck-swallow-breathe. My husband brings me pillows for my arms, legs, and back. He checks my wrists to make sure they're not crunched into right angles. I didn't know it took a village to nurse a baby.

I can't believe how sore I am. I feel stupid and helpless, carrying a little inflatable donut pillow around the house with me. I also ache all over and sweat like crazy at night, and all of the blood vessels under my eyes are broken. Labor was like running a marathon while being sick with the flu. But I'm also emotionally sore. I feel broken-hearted, and I can't explain why. I don't really believe that Westley came out of me, or that he was ever inside of me. Holding him fills me with calm and confusion and dread. He's so completely fragile and yet so sturdy. He has bones, for fuck's sake! There is no way I could have had any part in making something so beautiful and complex. I'm pretty sure God is going to show up at the door and demand him back. Any minute now...

One Month Old
Mom brings Westley to me in the middle of the night. After his last feeding, she takes him and rocks him, dozing with him in her arms until he wails for milk. Then she brings him to me and keeps me company while I nurse him, bleary-eyed in the dark, feeling a little like a crazy person. Part of me honestly thinks that this is what my life will be for the rest of my life. Part of me is certain that there will come a time when I miss this: sitting in the silent living room with my sleep-deprived mother, feeding a tiny hungry creature.

We have awesomely effective blackout shades on the living room window, but I leave them open all night. When I stumble out of bed, light from the neighbors' security lamps pours in, protecting me like a nightlight.

Westley looks like an owl in the dark, with wide dark eyes. He seems so wise and so confused at the same time. I make a conscious effort to tell him what I'm going to do, even though it feels strange to talk to him. I try to imagine what it would be like to live with creatures fifteen times my size, whose language I didn't speak and who I could only assume had my best interests at heart. I'm surprised Westley is so calm, all things considered. I think he's braver than I am.

Two Months Old
One of my most cherished friends comes to visit and I never want her to leave. She blends seamlessly into my scattered routine. We sit on the couch and watch TV together while Westley eats. I'm finally over my obsession with babies-getting-born shows, so we watch What Not To Wear.

Our adventures are mundane at this point. The grocery store is a big hit. Westley sleeps in the ring sling like a perfect angel. I love having the weight of him on my body. It makes shopping a much slower process, but I'm so glad to be out with him. I used to notice mothers with their babies and smile at them. Now I'm one of those mothers. I don't notice people smiling. Westley is all I can see.

He sleeps through restaurant meals. I drape a napkin over him and try not to spill anything. I'm on high-alert, ready to bolt to the car the minute he starts to seem upset, but it never happens. I come home with sore muscles from tensing my legs under the table.

Three Months Old
I debate long and hard with myself over what to put on The Sign. I finally settle on the very vague "Please Do Not Disturb," print it off so it looks somewhat official, and post it on the conference room door with double-stick tape. I've double- and triple-checked the schedule for that day and the room is supposed to be free for the next hour. But there's no lock. I position myself so that my back is to the door.

Leaving my baby at home is hard, but it's nothing compared to pumping. Pumping at work is awful. It's both mildly painful and a huge logistical pain. I want to cry when I see that I've only managed to express eight ounces of milk in two sessions, knowing that Westley is at home drinking twelve ounces. It's backwards and wrong to have to try to get a machine to suck milk out of my tits so I can be away from my son doing a job I kind of hate.

"Look at you!" the Account Executive says cheerfully when she sees me at the sink with my pump parts. "I remember that. I couldn't do it." Her girls are teenagers, but from her tone, you'd think it was yesterday. She smiles. "Good for you."

Yeah, good for me, but I don't know how much longer I can manage. I never really envisioned myself as a stay-at-home mother. My goal was to have a professional identity in addition to being a mother and a wife. But the job I'm doing now is not the job I was promised when I returned from maternity leave. It's not my employer's fault that the client changed her mind, but no one let me know that things had changed. My favorite coworkers have already moved on to new jobs with more stable companies.

This is not the professional identity I wanted. I think I have to quit.

Four Months Old
How is it possible that everything in my life is the same and completely different at the same time?

Five Months Old
I can't remember the last time we had to wake Westley up to feed him, but we still sing the song we wrote so that we wouldn't have to cry about gently jiggling a tiny baby. It sort-of-but-not-really goes to the tune of "Wake Up Little Susie."

Wake up, little Westley, wake up
Wake up, little Westley, wake up
You know it's time for food, 'cause you are in the mood
I'm shakin' you to waken you 'cause you're my little dude
Wake up, little Westley
Wake up, little Westley
It's time to eat food

It's fun to sing to him, especially the silly songs we come up with on the spur of the moment. He seems to love music, and Rob and I started putting his name into whatever song pops into our heads. "West" rhymes with lots of good stuff ("Nobody does it half as good as you/Baby, you're my West"), and it's pretty easy to fit "Westley O" somewhere into a line.

He has a hundred nicknames, but I almost always call him "Westley O," like he's a First Lady.

Six Months Old
You and I have a Mutual Admiration Society going. You smile at me all the time, everywhere, like I'm the coolest person you know. Like you're surprised to see me in the supermarket. I snuggle you and kiss you and nuzzle you and nibble your sides saying, "Corn on the cob! Yum-yum-yumyumyum!"

I'll probably say it again next month, but this is my favorite age.

Seven Months Old
Westley and I ride the bus to a mom's group, which turns out to be a terrible idea. The group part, that is. I'm the youngest mother and Westley is the oldest baby. The women want to talk about issues that should really be discussed with therapists, and Westley wants to crawl all over their tiny, squalling infants. The group leader wants us to sit quietly and "meditate" at the opening and closing of every group session. Um, not so much.

The bus-riding part is awesome, however. Westley watches everything with giant eyes, and flirts tentatively with the elderly woman next to us on the way there. On the way home, the middle-aged Jamacaian woman sitting next to me asks me how old Westley is. Then she asks, "Breastfeeding or bottle?" I'm caught off-guard and hear myself answering her while I'm wondering what kind of question that is from a stranger.

"I'm breastfeeding him."

She doesn't say anything after that, and I don't continue the conversation. But I wonder, does she think I shouldn't be breastfeeding him? Is she polling all of the mothers of babies she sees, conducting an informal survey? I wonder what strange thing she would have asked me if she'd been on the bus route I rode while I was pregnant.

Eight Months Old
My son is speaking to me. It's like a miracle is taking place in my living room.

I can see the wheels turning inside his head as he figures it out. This is how you communicate. His babble goes up and down, with the highs and lows of real sentences. I listen hard, trying to pick words out of the strings of sing-song vowels and consonants. I try to find the words I know he recognizes.

Mommy, Daddy, milk. More, up, kitty, gentle. Glasses, hi, no. MaMay, Granddad, nap, night. Bye-bye.

So far, everything is "ma." It's his go-to sound, and he uses it to mean Mommy and everything he needs. He cries "mamamama" when he wants me to hold him, when he wants to nurse, when he's bored and fed up with being in the car seat, when he's tired and feeling like crap.

He never says "mama" when he's happy. Instead, he flashes his sparkly eyes and laughs with his mouth wide open. With each laugh, I love him even more than I did a minute ago.

Nine Months Old
You are nine months old, and napping sweetly in your crib. You sleep so well now that you're spending each day tiring yourself out. If you could, you would spend every waking minute moving, playing, exploring. At your nine-month check-up, I told your doctor that you were doing the commando slither, but not crawling yet. You crawled that same afternoon, because you're sneaky like that. My sweet punky-pie, my little man.

The best times are just watching you enjoy your world and figure it out. You love breezes, ceiling fans, the sound of the creek rushing through the backyard, splashing water in the bath, any and all music. You know how to pet the kitties gently, but you yank my hair out by the handfuls. Friendly strangers in the grocery store make you crumple and cry, so I squat low and push you in the shopping cart fast, making race car noises.

Thank you for being so patient with me. You forgive me when I mess up, and are always delighted to tell me when I get it right. Having you by my side, on my hip makes me less self-conscious. I sing more often because of you. Old sights, sounds and smells are fun and cool and interesting and "Wow!" I can't imagine where I would be without you. You are my monkey, my elf, the little king who totally saved my life. It breaks my heart how much I love you, Bunk. You're growing so strong and fast. I hope I can keep growing with you.

.....................................

The First Nine Months

The last year and a half has been a crazy, scary, joyful journey. Westley has been part of my life for eighteen months and it’s hard to believe he wasn't always here. My little man-person will be nine months old tomorrow, and it feels like such a milestone. He looks more and more like a little boy every day, moving out of babyhood as he works to eat, talk, and move on his own. He has been outside my body as long as he was inside it. I'm looking back and looking forward at the same time.

Six Weeks Pregnant

I leave my seat at the front desk to call the midwives' office from the small, windowless Interview Room. My hands are shaking as I talk to the woman at the office's answering service.

"How far along are you?" she asks.

"Uh, about...five and a half weeks," I say, suddenly self-conscious about having to think in Pregnancy Math, which is not like Regular Math.

Silence on the other end of the phone. I stared down at the scrap of paper I'd brought in with me. I'd written my own phone number at the top, because I always forget it when asked by someone I can't see.

Her voice came back suddenly. "Birth date?"

"I'm due November twenty-eighth, oh-seven." A number from an online generator, memorized since the afternoon the two purple lines appeared on the pee-stick.

"No, your birthday."

"Oh, uh...um..." I should have written that down on the scrap paper, too.

Three Months Pregnant

We have dinner with Rob's parents at the vegan pizzeria and tell them, and his mother promptly tells everyone. I'm so angry at her, and angry at Rob for not also being angry with her. She shared news that was not hers to share, and deprived him the opportunity to introduce his unborn child to the family personally! I'd imagined Rob calling his grandfather in Alaska and receiving congratulations and old-fashioned-sounding advice, whatever the baby-having equivalent of "don’t go to bed angry" is.

After saying good-bye to my in-laws that evening, I throw up. I’d been feeling sick almost constantly for weeks and in a crazy way, it's rewarding to finally have my nausea validated.

Now everything makes me feel like vomiting. Thoughts of feeding my fetus salads and whole grains and fresh things disintegrate. I get on food-jags and eat basically one thing for a week or so, until it starts to repulse me completely, and then I find something new: tomato-and-Vegenaise sandwiches, hard pretzels and lemonade, plain bagels with Tofutti cream cheese, bean burritos (from Taco Bell), soy yogurt and soy pudding, veggie burgers and fries, pounds and pounds of melon...

Four Months Pregnant

I thought I would feel pregnanter by now.

Five Months Pregnant

What is my body doing, anyway? Incubating a tiny human being. How did I get here? Being twenty-four, reasonably healthy and having lots of sex, for starters. Oh. Right.

Rob measures years in Christmases. If someone is in prison for ten years, he thinks, that's ten Christmases. When I think about Christmas, it sinks in that there will be a tiny, newborn human being in my house, and I begin to feel my future shifting. It's like the way I felt after getting married. The wedding is supposed to be The Day, and it's built up as a Happily-Ever-After with no mention of the enormous journey that follows. A couple's future as parents is similarly misshapen. So often the idea is about having children, not having a child. But that little heartbeat, that thwump-thwump-thwump underwater rave coming through the doppler, belongs to a little individual. A single new person who will make Rob a father, and me a mother.

Rob puts his hand on my belly just in time to feel three strong kicks from something round and firm, like there's a hard-boiled egg pushing on me. This is not a future-tense family. We have a child.

Vacation

I'm hoisting my carry-on suitcase into the overhead bin when the woman behind me says, "Here, let me help you. I remember what that was like." I'm almost six months pregnant and it’s the first time a stranger has noticed and said anything to me. I feel sort of elated, and the baby kicks for most of the long flight.

My college girlfriends, whom I'm visiting for five days, are pissed as hell that I didn't tell them right away. We make up almost immediately, and they determine that since there are five of us and three beds, the expectant mother should get the bed by herself. They make sure I have rice milk for my cereal, and Sarah tries to listen to the baby with her stethoscope. Choosing names quickly turns from the classic and plausible to the ridiculous.

They don't care that I got pregnant kind of on purpose but mostly by accident. They like to think that I was trying, because "trying" sounds so official and grown-up. I guess I'm the grown-up in the group now.

Seven Months Pregnant

Unless I'm naked or wearing something with an empire waist, I still don't really look pregnant, and it makes me want to cry. I have belly fat rolls instead of a baby belly. I wasted too many years being fat, and worked very hard to lose weight before I got pregnant, and now, instead of looking cure and pregnant, I just look fat again.

It's fucking unfair.

Eight and a Half Months Pregnant

People at work keep asking if I'm ready. The question makes it sound like there's a disaster coming and I should be stocking up on canned goods and bottled water. Ready. The word alone suddenly has me feeling certain there's something I haven't thought of. Something pivotal. Of course, it doesn't help that we really have nothing for the baby. Not even a house.

Rob and I are moving out of our house soon. I've been hesitant to buy anything until we have a place to put it. The tiny, windowless nursery in our apartment used to be the laundry room, but things have been rewired, water has been redirected, and doors have been installed. One of the walls is painted swimming pool blue. Very serene.

There is nothing calm about my life right now. After three months of no work and waiting for a phone call, crossing fingers, and agonizing over interviews, Rob has a job. A good job. A job that is going to take care of us, make everything okay. It's both a huge sigh of relief and a question mark. A new home, a new job, a new baby.

If I'm not ready, I'd better get there fast.

Nine Months Pregnant

The sun is setting outside, but all I see is black. My eyes are closed, and I press my teeth together, feeling pain in the darkness. Pulling like a rubber band stretched taught. Contracting. Is this it? I exhale. I slowly open my eyes. I look at my husband and wait one minute. Ten minutes. Nothing.

I try to keep my mind clear and calm, try not to get excited at the prospect of labor or disappointed by another painful Braxton-Hicks contraction. I feel a heel digging into my ribcage on the right side, and picture the baby upside down, its head pressing me open from the inside. I wonder if concentration and mental toughness can make my cervix start to dilate. I wish there were more I could do. All there is to do is wait...


.....................................

8 Months: A Musical Tribute

Hungry All of the Time
(To "Wanted Dead or Alive" by Bon Jovi)

It's all the same, only the diapers change
Every day it seems I don't get my way
I've ruled this place ever since I was a noob
I'd cry all night just to get that boob

I'm a baby, in a car seat I ride
I'm hungry all of the time
Hungry
All of the time

Sometimes I nap, sometimes it's not for days
I can creep and clap, and chew cat toys when I plays
Sometimes you eat purees
With the bottle that you drink
And right before your bath all you do is stink

I'm a baby, in an Ergo I ride
I'm hungry all of the time
Hungry
All of the time

I crawl these streets, with a rattle in my hand
Don't use my feets, 'cause I don't know how to stand
I see everything when I'm carried tall
I've hugged a dozen shoulders, and puked on them all

I'm a baby, in a stroller I ride
I'm hungry all of the time
I'm a baby, my mama's nerves are all fried
I'm hungry all of the time
And I cry, all of the time
I still cry, all of the time
All of the time

.....................................

7 Months

A is for Already?!

B is for Babbling Blah blah da.

C is for Creeping, but not for Crawling.

D is for Diaper, pronounced "Dye-uh-pa" for fun.

E is for Eating.

F is for Flirting.

G is for Going to bed with your Green blanket.

H is for Hair. You pull mine and pet your own.

I is for I swear you were just in my belly.

J is for Johnny Jump Up.

K is for Kisses.

L is for Little Man.

M is for Monkey.

N is not for Napping.

O is for "Oh my God, you grew in the night!"

P is always for Pee.

Q is for Quiet. Shh. Baby's sleeping. Finally.

R is for Riding the bus.

S is for Sitting on your own.

T is for Teeth. Toofers. Two of 'em.

U is for Us.

V is for Very early to rise.

W is for What would I do without you, West?

X is for Xylophone, because X is always for Xylophone.

Y is for your Yummy ears and cheeks and toes.

Z is for Z' Best Little Man Evah. Zeriously.

.....................................

Half

I'm glad that today is today and not six months ago today.

Today, I have a solid-food-eating, daily-showering, sleeping-like-it's-his-job little dude. I say it every month, and I'll probably keep saying it as time continues to pass, but this is my favorite age.

It's Westley's half birthday. Six months. The big "point-five."

Half a year ago, Westley was a tiny, swaddled newborn. Depending on how I look at it, that time was either several years ago, or just yesterday. The slightest shift changes time in my mind's eye. It's like the vase-or-two-faces thing.

Many of those Things That Everyone Says to new parents aren't true, but one certainly is: they're babies for only one year. Six months from now, Westley may very well be toddling, in which case, he won't be a baby any more: he'll be a toddler. And I'll be saying, "Just yesterday you were six months old."

But that's tomorrow. I'll continue enjoying today until it gets here.

.....................................

5 Months

Dear Westley,

You are five months old today.

Grandad tells me that you woke up singing this morning. You love being sung to, so it doesn't surprise me that you'd be interested in trying to sing on your own. You've been using your voice since you were teeny-tiny, making a little "ooh" noise after each sneeze, as though to say, "Thank God that's over with!" The post-sneeze "ooh" is mostly gone now, making way for whole sentences in coo-speak, punctuated with the occasional growl.

You love to use your body, too. I hold you up so you can practice standing, and you beam at me. You can roll over, but you'd love to be more mobile. I'm worried about you learning to crawl before I've had a chance to establish a good floor-washing routine.

I'd wager that nearly every mother thinks her child is smart. But you seem so smart. It scares me to think that you might be smart. I will never keep up with you if you are. I barely keep up with you now.

You know your name. You recognise the words "mama" and "milk." And you know who I am, and you're glad to see me, which makes my heart rip in half with amazement and love and I think I'm going to die a little. I can't believe you chose me, Punky.

I call you Water Baby Fishy Pie, which evolved out of "baby fishmouth" and "punkin pie" and bath time. I take you in the shower with me and you suck the water off my shoulder. I miss you if I go to the supermarket by myself, even if I feel like I need some time alone and don't want to miss you.

A year ago today, I told MaMay and Grandad I was pregnant. Grandad said "That's great news," and MaMay said "I knew it!" We all sat around in the empty living room of their new house and ate burritos and talked about how I was feeling. I had no idea what an amazing little soul I was carrying.

I can't believe you've been here five months already, sweet boy. Time is flying, and I know you'll be on to the next thing before I can catch my breath.

Love,
Mommy

.....................................

3 Months

Yesterday was Westley's three-month birthday. He celebrated with a three-hour nap--nothing fancy. I looked through the hundreds of photos of him that I have yet to organize.

Every few days, I look at pictures of my little boy in his first few weeks. I'd think, "Yeah, that's what he looks like." But yesterday, the photos suddenly and mysteriously changed from "that's Westley" to "holy CRAP, he's grown so MUCH!" The skinny little shrimp is gone. He's all baby.

Now that he is out of his "fourth trimester" and looking like a Hollywood newborn, I'm trying to remember the details of those first few weeks--when I was too dizzy to see straight, let alone record what was going on with the tiny new person in my life.

00.01
At zero-to-one-month-old, Westley is like a space alien. He sleeps between us at night, and talks in his sleep--little grunts and squawks that don't disturb him at all, but keep me awake and wondering if everything is really all right with him. He also talks about what's going on with his insides. Bowel activity is preceded by an elaborate routine of fussing and writhing and crying. Pooping seems to upset him; it's like he doesn't know that he has to squeeze his tummy and relax his bottom. I wish I could tell him how to do it.

Breastfeeding is a nightmare, and I understand why some women try it and then quit immediately. It's miserable, especially in the middle of the night, when only God is awake. We have to wake him up to feed him, which is a cruel process for everyone involved. It's against nature to wake an eensy sleeping baby. When I'm especially frustrated--because he's not latching on well, or he's fallen asleep again--I start threatening him. "I'll show you. I'll nurse you 'til you're five."

Rob and I take him to church on Christmas Eve. The only place we can find to sit is in the Cry Room. We're surrounded by screaming toddlers and exhausted parents, but Westley sleeps through everything. I'm very thankful that I'm not pregnant and riding from Nazareth to Bethlehem on a donkey.

01.02

Sometime around Westley's six-week birthday, I realize that nursing him has gotten easier. Or, rather, he's gotten the hang of it. I still kind of hate it, but I love watching him eat and he's growing like crazy, so I’m stuck.

He coos when he sneezes. It's honestly the cutest thing I've ever heard. He'll sneeze two or three times in a row, followed by a nice long "Oooooooh." He's starting to smile, too. I won't let myself think that it's social, but it sure seems social. Sometimes when we look at him and start to talk to him, he gets this wide-eyed happy look on his face as though to say, "Oh hey, it's you! You're awesome!"

We take him on lots of mundane little adventures. He's great in restaurants. Riding through the grocery store in the ring sling always puts him to sleep. Sometimes he'll move his feet inside the sling and kick me in the ribs, and I can't really believe that the little person who was kicking me from the inside for all those months is now on the outside.

02.03
Westley sleeps in his own bed now. That way, he can talk in his sleep all he wants and I don't have to lie there next to him wondering when "uh…uh…uh" is going to turn into a full-blown wail. I kind of miss having him spooned up against me, my arm draped over and around him so that he can suck my thumb (because he can't get to his own), but everyone seems to be getting more sleep this way.

He still can't suck his thumb, but he'll happily cram both fists up to his mouth and slurp on the side of his hand. His fingers are endlessly fascinating. Sometimes he spouts long vowel-sound monologues while folding his hands in front of him. Toys are only mildly interesting. Hands are where it's at!

Watching Rob and me eat is the best part of Westley's day. We put his baby seat squarely in the middle of the table during dinner, and he watches us. His favorite food-viewing involves forks, and lots and lots of chewing. I wonder if he knows that what we're doing is eating, just like I wonder if he knows that kisses mean love.

There are two little white lines on his bottom gum. I can't really believe that this tiny boy will ever have teeth, but there they are, right under the surface. I'm afraid he's going to be interested in eating table food way before his doc says it's okay. But I guess we'll cross that bridge if we come to it, in the months still ahead of us.

I just can't believe we're here already.

.....................................