What’s on Your Milestone Calendar?
On the twelve-lane, no speed minimum or limit, rocky and scenic road of raising a baby, the sign most often posted is regarding milestones. Everyone wants to know about the milestones. The pediatrician, friends and family, people in line behind you at the grocery store … they’re all wildly curious about The Milestones.
I have to tell you, after Scoob sprouted eight teeth by seven months but didn’t say “mama” until he was ten months, I stopped paying attention to milestones. I quit worrying whether or not he was going to walk, talk, sing, or get a college degree according to the approved timeline. In this house, we follow quite another schedule. And to be completely honest, these things just make the other “milestones” sort of pale in comparison. These gave me a bit of a glimpse into my son’s growing personality.
He shared. He picked up his Goldfish cracker, looked at it, put it into my mouth and smiled. Then he opened his mouth for his goldfish cracker. It remains to be seen whether or not he will be keen on the reallocation of things that don’t come a billion to a box.
When he’s not choking down handfuls of crackers, he dances. Oh boy, does this kid dance. To Count Basie, and then to Soulja Boy. (Yes, we are a fairly musically diverse household.) He dances. He dances to my husband playing the guitar. He dances to my ringtones. He dances when I sing. He dances to the music in his head while in the Johnny Jump Up. And (most notably) he dances so furiously to The Blackeyed Peas new song that he ends up hitting his head on the side of the playpen. Hard. This kid channels J Lo and Sebastian Bach simultaneously. The kid is a shimmyin’ and headbangin’ all the live long day.
Then, when he’s not dancing, he high fives. I hold my hand up and say “high five!” and he slaps my hand and squeals with glee. Glee, people. You might hear it and think that Tibet is free, he’s that excited.
He tries to hold conversations. Yesterday, when I went to get him from his nap, I said, “Iiiiiit’s MAMA!”, and he said “No. Dada.” I’m so glad we’re back to loving only Dada. It is Dada that got the epidural and expelled the nine pounds of life. I was only there eating cookies.
The icing on the cake? I changed his super stinky diaper and allowed him to finish shakin’ his rump to Mambo Number 5. When I turned to pick him up, his diaper was OUTSIDE his playpen.
I guess he needed his butt unencumbered to give the mambo its proper respects.