My Weekend, Or Why I Am Still Very Cranky On Tuesday

We went to Jason's company picnic on Saturday.

It was raining.

It was alcohol-free.

It was at the fucking zoo.

Soaking wet and sober is no way to spend a weekend. When you add in the smell of monkeys and forcible posing with a giant stuffed panda, well, hello! Welcome to hell. Please to enjoy this commemorative Polaroid of your visit.

(On the plus side, how styling does Noah look? He's wearing head-to-toe gifts from Miss Zoot, who alone ensures that my son has something else to wear besides prune-juice-stained onesies.)

Exhibit A: Chug! Chug! Chug!

By the way, do you see that? THAT RIGHT THERE? With the sippy cup?

That is a child who is breaking my heart, is what that is. No more bottles. AT ALL. Not even before naps or bedtime anymore. He's done.

I had a full-on freak-out about a month ago when I thought about even attempting to wean Noah off bottles. He switched to mostly whole milk around 10 months old, but he would have NOTHING to do with sippy cups. Formula, milk, juice, water -- all were met with a dribbly open mouth of disgust and then hurled across the room. Bottles were greeted with screams of JOY JOY JOY and carried around the house empty and attempts to take them away were greeted with screams of HATRED HATRED HATRED.

In other words, Noah did not seem like he was ready to give up his bottles any time this decade.

Then one day, on a whim, I picked up some YoBaby drinkable yogurt at the grocery store. I poured some in a cup, handed it to Noah and got ready to receive a sippy-cup-shaped bruise on my forehead.

Instead, Noah downed every drop, all the while looking at me like, now THIS is yogurt! What the hell was with that SPOON business, woman? God.

And then every few days after that it seemed like we were eliminating yet another bottle, adding another meal or snack, another new food was met with approval, another blow to the happy little routine I worked so hard to carve out. Another step away from babyhood.

(Oh crap, she's about to go off on some hardcore mommyblog shit, I can just sense it.)

He eats Indian food and pasta and pizza. He loves peas and broccoli and cheese and waffles and yogurt and every fruit in existance.  He sorts shapes and invents games and plays fetch with the dog. Everything in the world is called da-da. He still won't wave or clap or point. Baby sign language goes over with a skeptical thud. He walks unassisted, but only when he forgets to think about it.

He is hitting milestones at a rate I can't keep up with. I look back on his newborn days and the care I would take to obsessively report on his every eye movement or the tiniest change in his flailing limbs. Now it seems indulgent and tiresome to even try to document all the changes I notice every day. Sippy cups! How about that! How utterly fascinating! Please tell us the exact nature and consistency of his "big boy poops" while you're at it!

When compared to every other child out there, he is not unique or brilliant or special. He is just another kid, growing up, and of little interest to anyone except his parents, who naturally think he is the MOST unique, the MOST brilliant, the MOST special kid on earth.

All because he knows how to use a stupid sippy cup. But you know what?

It's good enough for me. Alert Harvard.

(Well, okay, Maybe give him a few more years to work on his cooperation skills.)