In my second photo, week 2 of the new year, PJ is proudly displaying a huge grin of self-satisfaction because he was engaging in the following activity a few nights ago, a stunt he had yet to pull off on his own:
Yep, standing. My toot is growing up!
{An aside, my son looks very much like my brother Ryan at this age in this photo, which just kinda tickles me for some reason.}
Just look how proud he is of himself... performing such a feat of amazing proportions!
So as I've described in my blog title, I. Am. A. Mommy., and in being a mom every little action PJ makes is special, adorable and has never been performed as specially adorable as by my son.
It's a mom thing.
Let's start there. Mom. Say it with me~ "mahhhhmmm." If you say it slowly, drawing out the single syllable, it almost sounds like a mantra. Mahhhhmmm... mahhhhmmm... sorta like the maternal version of "om."
Mom. Mother. Mommy. Madre. Mutter. Matka. Anya. Mathair. Any way you say it the word means the same thing. Mom. Such a simple little word yet so strong.
I never thought I'd be a mother. The thought of motherhood terrified me for a long time. Being responsible for the life of a tiny fragile little being was a totally foreign concept for me and for a while I was nearly resigned to remain childless {although God obviously had other, more interesting, plans for me.} I could only imagine I'd screw it all up somehow and my kid would wind up in a traveling circus doing the most dangerous job possible like tightrope walking without a net or sticking his head in a lion's mouth, or else he'd grow to be one of those guys who sells loud tiger rugs on the outskirts of a supermarket parking lot.
And yet now, approximately two years after learning I was pregnant, my husband and I are the proud parents of a child we love more than life itself. Philip Jay Hupke. "PJ." I can't imagine my life without him.
Unbeknownst to me since PJ's birth I've slipped a new language into my daily repertoire. "Completenonsensegibberish" is what I like to call it {although I do speak to PJ in regular adult language too- for those of you who might be gasping in shock that I still speak to my 14-month old in Completenonsensegibberish.} It's half sing-song, one quarter made up words, and one quarter English with a healthy dash of Elmoish for good measure. It's a conglomeration of all the kid songs I remember from my youth, those I've googled and also listened to via youtube, such as PJ's personal favorite {alright alright- mine too} The Belly Button Silly Song. The end result goes something like this:
La la la, la la la, Elmo's song.
We like to sing, we love to dance
To Elmo's songggggg...
And baby I have to
Tell you somethin'
Elmo's got no
Belly button
Elmo's song...
Now for this to be done properly it must be sung at a note high enough that only small children and dogs are able to hear it.
Along with the Completenonsensegibberish the list of nicknames I have for him grows longer by the day...
Bean Sprout
My Little Man
Papa's Little Guy
McLovin' {one of my personal faves}
Toot
String Bean
Honey Bunches of Oates
Peej
Cheekybutts
The list goes on and on. I could kiss his low-hanging cheeks all day long while making him giggle by saying, "What's up Mama's Little McLovin'!?"
I swear the kid's even cute when picking his nose {mysteriously he's just realized this week that his index finger fits perfectly up his nostril, although it's hilarious to watch him try to find said nostril to fit his finger up there~ it's all about coordination.}
I look back and wonder why I was so scared by the idea of Motherhood. Now I have a ready-made buddy {at least for a while, until he's a tween and realizes I'm an utter and complete embarrassment and the worst mom in the whole wide world- not even in... Kazakhstan are there more humiliating mothers than the one I will become once PJ learns to be self-conscious. Then I'll suck. But until then we'll have a fun time of it.}
Right now I'm dealing with the jealousy I feel over the smiles he bestows upon everyone he meets. What? It's been a whole three minutes since you've smiled at me and now you're breaking out into a huge grin for the woman selling The Times at Stracks and desperately waving to the Salvation Army bell ringer? What about me? What did I do to deserve this gross neglect? Did I make your oatmeal too cold? Too warm? Didn't you like the lasagna I fed you before bath time? Did it take me too long to wipe your drool-coated chin? {because Lord knows he'll be teething until he's twenty.} Was your teether not... teethy enough? Whatdididooooo???
And I realize it's nothing... I'm just fortunate to have a very happy guy, one who's on the verge of no longer being a baby but instead a little man.
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