dear nixon: volume 3

Holy cow, sweetcheeks—
has it really been six whole months since we first met?

I remember the feeling of holding you for the very first time;
seconds new to the world, wrapped up like a tiny burrito, laying in my arms on top of the very spot where you’d been hanging out for the previous nine months.

That part always floors me the most, man.

Like… I grew you.
I sort of suck at flowers, but I grew a you.

In the space of seconds, you went from being a blurred, curious little entity that we’d wondered about for months, to this living, breathing, tangibleyou.

I remember the way it felt to look over and see you, the most beautiful dreamer, fast asleep in the sunlight of your very first morning.
It was the weirdest and most beautiful feeling, having it sink in that you were mine—
you were ours
and here we all were in a brand-new chapter, where we got to figure it all out together.

Six months going on forever, cakes.
This chapter is pretty cool.


The last month has been one of big-deal milestones for you, including going from “I can roll, probably” to “I EFFING LOVE ROLLING”;
being able to sit up on your own, without immediately folding in half like a little yogi;
and, much to my personal delight, sitting in an actual restaurant high chair for the first time.

I still dork out super hard because LOOK HUSBAND
LOOK HOW THE BABY IS AT DINNER WITH US

You particularly love Chick-Fil-A because they provide you with a little plastic place mat—
sidenote; hi, chikin people, you are the greatest for stocking each & every high chair with said place mat and a pack of sanitizing wipes, I love you
anyway, that little plastic place mat apparently tastes fantastic.
You plunge your hand into it like it’s a puppet and proceed to eat your fists with renewed fervor.

As for the whole “actual eating” thing, we’re just getting started on that now that you’ve hit six months.
So far, you’ve had (and by “had,” I mean “gummed the hell out of and then rubbed all over your face”) banana, cucumber, a biscuit, some green beans, and a few of the weirdo Chick-Fil-A fries that come out looking like baseball mitts.

Your general reaction is DAFUQ IS THIS.


So, I have boobs now.
MUCH TO MY ALARM AND SURPRISE.

When the nice saleslady at Victoria’s Secret informed me exactly how much boob I’m now responsible for, I may or may not have laughed in her face.

And then I went into the dressing room with the new bra size she gave me, and WELL WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT.

I then proudly proclaimed, “I have BOOBS now!” to which—
without missing a beat, from the other side of the dressing room door—
your daddy (equally proudly) replied, “Oh, I KNOW.”

And that, darling boy of mine, is just one of the many reasons I know your daddy is a keeper.

(Also? I’m pretty sure these are just “loaner” boobs until you’re done nursing, so I’m mainly recording this for posterity.

THERE WAS INDEED A TIME THAT I WAS STACKED, AND IT WAS NOW.)


The other weekend—
after we’d tucked you in, and after I’d spent my requisite five minutes appropriately marveling over what a beautiful little sleeper you are—
I was sorting through a massive basket of all your too-small baby clothes.

There was the plaid, fleece-lined lumber-jacket aunt Naomi sent you last summer, when you were still the size of handheld food.

There were the overalls that you out-fatted, like, one day after you wore them.

There were the little sheepskin-lined booties I tucked your feet into when we’d go on winter walks with the Ergo during my maternity leave.

There were some serious super-cutes I was sad to see go—
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO YOU, FLUFFY ONESIE WITH LITTLE FOX FEETS—
but I’ve gotta say:
At six months, your onesie game is quite possibly at its strongest so far.

I mean…


You are a tiny beacon of glee;
a glee-con, if you will.

Your smile comes on like a slow burn, with a 100% success rate in melting old ladies in line at the grocery store.

You wake up & turn on the sunshine.

Even the other night, when you decided, hey, you know what would be SUPER fun is to wake up every 45-ish minutes—
I’d lean down to pick you up, and IN THE FREAKING DARK, I could see you smiling.

You’re something else, kid.


You do this thing now where you reach out your chubby little hands and pat my cheeks, and oh, sweet everything, it is good.

There’s just something about how very deliberate it is that slays me;
that you’re purposefully reaching out to cup my face and shoot me one of those sunny, poky-tongued grins, and then you’re right back to doing life, like, okay mama, I’m going to go put some more things in my mouth again now.

Those are the very sweetest seconds, little love, and I’m so thankful you give them to me.


Things I am obsessed with right now:

  • the way your tuftyhair feels like it’s made from puffy dandelion wishes

  • the way your baby chubber thighs look in shorts, so much so that a lot of times I’m just like EFF OFF SHORTS, THE GLORIOUS CHUB MUST BE FREED

  • this hilarious face you’ve started doing recently if you wake up in a different place than where you fell asleep, like you don’t want us to know that you’re confused as all hell that we’re not at Target anymore.

In all fairness, this is probably also the face I’d make, too, if I went down for a nap in the mecca of all things good and then woke up at Murdochs.

I mean, they sell chickens and horse vaccines there.

This face is so amazing, though, dude.
Your little eyes fly open and you fully freeze, face locked in, for at least a solid minute.

It’s like your inner dialogue is going,
OKAY, BE COOL
BE COOL
WTF HAPPENED
BE COOL


I’m exhausted, yo.

Sometimes, you hork in my hair;
on really special days, you hork all down my side at daycare, and then I get to wear you to work.

You’re really excellent at grabbing, and also pinching, and also pulling, AND ASK EVERY PART OF MY BODY YOU CAN REACH HOW I KNOW THIS.

You’ve never slept longer than four hours in a row, ever, in your whole entire life.

You still think your own farts are really funny.

You’ve discovered that, if you baby-yell into the plastic Dickies cup we use at bath time, it magnifies your voice.

You’re thrilled when you’re naked.

Your feet continue to amaze you, like you sometimes forget you have them only to look down and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THERE’S A WHOLE EXTRA SET OF HANDS DOWN HERE

It greatly upsets you when we do terrible things like remove your shirt or refuse to let you eat the channel changer.

You’re starting to mimic noises, which sometimes means that you, your daddy and I will spend an entire car ride making “eep” noises back and forth.

And you’ve absolutely, absolutely made the past half-year the most fun one I’ve ever had.

Stay rad, little buddy.

love your face forever,
mama.

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About ashley!

in love, obnoxiously happy, and up to a lot of awesome.
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One Response to dear nixon: volume 3

  1. Ems says:

    Dear Nixon,
    Your mom is the RADDEST. Your cheeks are the SQUISHEST. And, I keep STILL reading this, across SEVERAL PLATFORMS OF THIS POST, reading that you are a bacon of glee.
    I hope your mom doesn’t actually eat you.
    Love,
    Emily From the Internet

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