dear nixon: the “first halloween” edition

dear Nixon—

Earlier this week, we celebrated your very first Halloween!

There’s such a weird sense of pressure when it comes to first anythings, man, particularly first holidays.

Something about them takes on this impressive Sense of Meaning, because they have Never Happened Before, and you feel like you need to properly document them in order to fully capture the levity of how they were THE VERY FIRST THING.

Your first Christmas was easy, primarily in the sense that you were, like, two minutes old, and the fact that daddy and I showed up with pants on, (reasonably) alive, and with you was all that mattered.

But then you get to First Halloween, where—
and let’s be honest here—
the primary goal is to get cute AF pictures of you being very festive in your very first Halloween costume, not to mention find and/or craft said costume.

And the struggle to make that last part happen was real, because hashtag mama can’t sew.

We were also really limited in our costume selection because you continue to hate hats—
even the really super-cute, really super-soft buffalo plaid fleece ear flap one that I loved at Target.



Your hatred of headwear rendered 90% of Nixon-sized costumes completely useless, because most of them were these cozy, bunting-style things with giant stuffed heads on them. The idea is that you’d wear the hood-head up and SUDDENLY TAH-DAH, you are a bear.

… except you’d be like,
and pull the head-hood off, effectively make it look like you were wandering around parading a recent kill over your shoulder.

(Which is an idea we could have totally gone with and really committed to, honestly. But I feel like we should save morbid humor until you’re at least two)


Thus, our costume quest for a non-hooded Halloween began.

The first stop was Once Upon a Child, where we had high hopes of finding you something adorable, warm and painfully cute.
Said hopes were quickly dashed as we thumbed through the racks and our options were basically pumpkin, pumpkin, is that a butterfly idk, that one has a tutu, and pumpkin.
End scene.

In act two, we hunted for costumes at the actual store of Halloween, which lol forever why are tiny clothes NOT EVEN INTENDED FOR NORMAL LIFE so expensive?

There was this insanely precious gnome ensemble—WITH OVERALLS— that I probably would have attempted to put you in for normal life (because why limit the fun to just one day?), but its key defining feature (the delightful little gnome-beard) would’ve probably just pissed you off and/or been forcefully removed at its earliest opportunity.

So, solid nope.
End scene again.

For a hot minute, daddy & I briefly debated putting you in a dog costume. Because, hey, are they NOT designed for creatures that travel in the same manner you do right now anyway?
And how great would you look as a donut?

But ultimately, and through the power of an immense amount of felt, fabric glue and scissoring, I created you into a goldfish.

And being a fish is very exhausting.

Likely actually for real.

Because in my festive-fueled fervor TO CREATE, I neglected to consider the fact that you were basically wearing two pounds of felt & a metric ton of fabric glue.


Of course, I couldn’t just stop at crafting you into a tiny sea creature.
A…. SONfish….. if you will.


I decided the whole family would get in on the sea-themed fun.

Daddy would wear his waders & be a fisherman, you’d be our goldfishy, and I’d be a mermaid.
Except, as it turns out, waders don’t exactly mix well with dry land, so we got approximately zero pictures of this great idea.

This is what daddy looks like when he goes fishing for real anyway, though, so there’s that.

(Also, who knew they made fishing poles THAT TALL?)

During the day, we took you trick-or-treating around my work, the highlights of which included (1) you so thoroughly enjoying the Fig Newton from Ruth at the front desk that you made loud, ultra-pleased “MMMM!” noises with every bite we fed you; (2) you being offered a bowl of candy, into which you reached, grabbed a shiny Three Musketeers, then proudly dropped it back in because TAH-DAH; and (3) seeing a puppy, because any time any puppy is anywhere in existence, it is the greatest day.

Here’s you on your very first outdoor trick-or-treating adventure later that night, all cozied up in a giant fleece puff because climate:

The thing about having a non-walking human on Halloween is that there is no not weird way to trick or treat. It’s not like those miniature Snickers and shrunken bags of M&Ms going home for you, right?

Thus, we had a lovely time joining our friends (along with their superbly costumed troll doll & Hogwarts-themed offspring) in assuming the Attentive Parental Stand position at the end of numerous driveways, scoping out the assortment of costumes that paraded by.

I already can’t wait for next year, when we get to watch your sweet face come running back to us after every house, glowing with the pure joy of a rattling bucket full of candy.

Ten months old, dude, coming up on one month shy of a year before we know it.

Nine times out of ten, you’re the very first thing I see in the morning—
popping up next to me like little baby toast, your hair a puffy firework in the soft glow of not-yet-sunrise, waiting until you know I see you sitting there next to me before you bust out your first smile of the day.

Your current favorite toys include the plug to the space heater; outlets; Clementine’s food dish; water bowls; and anything small enough that you can push around the house and turn into a car.

Here and there, we hear words—
mama”, “dada,” and “yeah” are the for-sures, but they’re not super consistent. Mainly you like to yell “mamamamamamamama” to summon my boobs, which you’ve recently decided are hilarious.
Your new thing is to stop nursing, pull yourself up to sitting, and then sit back to laugh at whichever side is exposed.
It greatly pisses you off if I cover back up before this important step is completed.

You are a total sunshine, baby boy, and I’m pretty sure life has never been as great as it’s been since you brought those glorious cheeks into our lives almost 11 months ago.

All my heart, all my life, baby dude.


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dear nixon: volume 6

it’s been nine whole months since the very last time I felt you kick.

Nine months since your daddy & I precariously balanced my phone on the frame inside the porch window, set the timer, and snapped what would be the very last picture of all of us in the “sunset.”

Nine months and assorted days since we brought you home, set your car seat on the living room floor, and looked at each other like, “OMG, we got to take him home and he LIVES with us now. WHAT.

It’s been nine big, beautiful months of Pink Floyd onesies and striped pants, naptrapped afternoons and motorboat-noise mornings, first fevers and first foods, and somehow, sunshine and cheeks, you’ve now officially been hanging out with us for as long as it took to bake you.

High five and good job to all of us, WE ARE STILL ALIVE.

Back in those sunset days, before you tumbled Earthside and into our arms, everything your daddy and I did was punctuated—silently or otherwise—with, “This is the last time we’ll do _____ without having a baby.

We were so very aware of that invisible, electric charge that surrounded us those last weeks of November and early December, our toes inching ever closer and closer to this new, divisive line marking “before you” and “after.

Walking the mall, marveling,
This is the last weekend, ever, that we won’t be parents.

Leaving work, thinking,
This might be the last time I walk out the back door until I come back from maternity leave.

Sitting in a booth at Shari’s, saying,
This is the last time we’ll go out to breakfast with this baby belly.

Even on the morning you were born, I remember looking over at daddy as he started the car to go to the hospital and announcing,
The next time we come home, we’ll have a baby.

It’s such a crazy contrast, dude, when you compare the nine months of waiting to meet you vs. the nine months you’ve been in our lives.

As daddy so pointedly put it the other day,
God. What did we even DO before we had him here to play with?

At nine months—
and a rather tall nine months, at that—
we’re currently in this weird clothing purgatory where, apparently, there is no such thing as your actual size anymore.


Out of the eight-frillion clothing companies in the whole entire world who manufacture tiny human apparel, it appears only about two of them are down to make clothes that are just labeled “nine months.”

For everyone else, it’s basically like, okay, this shirt can fit you any time from now until the summer, GOOD LUCK GOD BLESS.

All your tiny human clothes to this point have gone in nice, tidy three-month spans, and now suddenly everything is either 6M-12M, 12M-18M, or THAT IS CLEARLY MADE FOR GIANTS



Further complicating matters, you still have some clothing marked 3-6M that fits, which doesn’t even make any sense BECAUSE TINY CLOTHING SCIENCE.

But I’m going with it.

Because damned if you won’t wear those cute pants with the monster on the butt until they’ve become capris on you.

In other exciting news, your hair game continues to be very strong.

Also, I think if you had the ability, you would happily trade us in and live the rest of your days with only Clementine.

You want to be in her food, while she’s eating it.
You want to high five her water, in the bowl, while she’s drinking it.
You want to be in her kennel with her, while she’s… in-there’ing.
You want to share all of your toys and snacks with her at any and every opportunity that presents itself.

Yesterday morning, you even woke up PRIOR TO DAWN because you’d apparently been waiting all night to shriek some vowels at her & you couldnot wait a moment longer to do it.

Bless her furry heart, for she is the raddest dog ever.

I mean.

(You later shared this celery with her, by the way.
And by “shared,” I mean you basically shoved it into her mouth and pointedly made cheeks at her until she accepted your drooly offering.

You’re in this painfully adorable stage right now where, every so often, you shove Wub into my face/daddy’s face/Clementine’s face, very generously offering to share your very favorite thing with us.
(And sometimes with our foreheads/eyes, whatever. Aim is hard.
I hear this is a recurring theme once you start peeing OUTSIDE your diaper.

Clementine straight panics when you try to share Wub and friends with her, though.
After the Incident where she kidnapped all of your Soothies pacifiers & buried them outside the first week you were home—
… yeah, that was a thing—
she knows that she is not allowed to play with them.

But then here you are, shoving the Forbidden Object in her face with such joy, BASICALLY PEER PRESSURING HER, and so homepuppy will literally dramatically sigh, stand up, and walk away.

Like, she will exit her relaxing and just solid NOPE you.

We read/heard a lot of weird stuff about what we should do to “prepare” Clementine for you before we brought you home (playing a recording of a crying newborn? WHY THO), but apparently the method where we just showed up with a little homemade human & let her walk in to meet you worked out juuuuust fine.

For your very first daycare field trip, we went swimming—
an event to which I neglected to bring your swim trunks, and I didn’t even realize until afterward that I was fully That Mom whose kid was paddling around in just his reusable swim diaper.


Swim diapers suck for naps.
Do not let your baby nap in a swim diaper. That whole “not absorbent” thing is in no one’s favor outside of the pool, and especially not in a car seat.

Regardless of the fact that you were basically swimming in nothing but your baby underwear on your first chlorinated excursion, you were allabout that swimming pool life.
We floated around together, your tongue casually curled out the entire time, stopping occasionally to slap the water with glee before returning to the Zen Tongue state.

You also only tried to pull off my swimsuit top once, which I consider an impressive win.

Thus, we enrolled you in swimming lessons, the first of which was a couple of weekends ago.

Lessons” is a loose term here; it’s basically like, six parent-kiddo pairs, ranging from 7 months to 2 years old, all milling around in the water while our very confused instructor tells us things like, “OK, let’s practice blowing in the water!” and encourages us to “help you” push off the wall with your legs.

I mean, her intentions are good.

If nothing else, it’s a rad excuse to go swimming, and you are dapper as all hell in your tiny plaid trunks.

Once upon half-of-your-life-ish ago, we used to attempt bedtime stories.

Being that you were mostly not mobile, this event usually amounted to your daddy & I snuggling into bed with you between us and attempting to get through a book before you got super pissed off that you couldn’t roll away.



You even have a favorite—
which fully trips me out, because you have favorites
that you’ll pick out from all the rest and, with pointer finger at the ready, pet each and every one of the touch-and-feel pages.

It is so rad.

Consequently, I’ve now stocked you up with, like, 17 “touch and feel” books because AAAAAH AREN’T BOOKS COOL

Of all the months in your glorious little life so far, this is the first one where I’ve had that moment of, “good hell, where did my baby go?

We were playing on the floor together—
glossy, sun-warmed wood scattered with colorful plastic links, splayed-open board books, the ever-demanding tambourine—
and I looked over at you, sitting up next to the doorway, so proud and confident and beamy.

You, just being this spectacular little human that is so decidedly not an itty bitty baby anymore.

You play peek-a-boo with THE ENTIRE OUTSIDE, using the curtains.
When we wipe your nose, you make motorboat noises with your lips because clearly that’s how mama & daddy do it.
You make “AH!” noises when you hear dogs barking or see the kitties and want to get their attention.
You half blow, half hum, trying to imitate the way daddy whistles to bring Clementine inside.

I wasn’t going to be this mom, you know—

But one day, it’ll be the very last time we watch you turbo-crawl across the floor.

One weekend morning soon, you won’t need to hold on to the ottoman to do your joy-fueled baby squats.

One afternoon, when I pick you up from baby work, you’ll just casually come strolling over to meet me instead of doing your usual happy-panting crawl from wherever you were sitting when I walked in.

And one very-early-o’clock, we’ll wake up to you saying real, actual words, evolved past your current “abababababa” and “amamamamama”-s.

But no how big, and smart, and good at unassisted squats you get, my little dude—
no matter how much further away you grow from the most beautiful 8-lb. burrito I’ve ever cradled in my arms—
you’ll always, always be my baby.

More than words, little man.
More than words.


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dear nixon: volume 5

Before you were born, we filled your bedroom with books—
little white shelves stacked two- and three-deep with pages full of syllables and stories, adjectives and adventures.

We strung a crocheted pizza pennant across the front of your crib, clothes-pinned tiny hats on a burlap clothesline above your dresser, and hung you a sky of puffy, crocheted stars.

Before you were born, I’d go and sit in your room—
me and the books and the pizza, and the puffy stars and your glossy-grey dresser—
and I’d rock barefoot, back and forth, in our green rocking chair, wondering what it’d be like to rock there with you.

I remember once looking over at the mirror on the door, catching my rocking reflection, and wondering,
how would I look when I was your mama? would I be different?
Would I still feel like me, when there was me plus you?
And how would you look, little light?
Whose features would I find when I traced the contours of your face?

I thought back on that the other night, sweet boy, as you and I snuggled together in that very same rocking chair.

Your bare little feet, peeking out of the green-striped jammies you’ve already out-talled;
your sleepy cheeks, tired-smushed against my chest;
your room around us so quiet and still, the puffy stars gently twirling in your ceiling-sky.

I hummed you back to sleep as we rocked there together, kisses scattered all across your forehead, gentle fingertip circles twirl-traced on your back.

And as you took a big baby sigh and fell back to sleep against my chest, I whispered back to the past version of me—
the one curious about who you’d be, and who she’d be, and what it would be like to welcome this whole entire being into our life—
and I told her,
oh, darling, it’s even better than you could ever dream.

Here we are now at eight months old, ‘Cakes, and you are crawling like it is your tiny job.

You spent weeks testing the waters, leaving the soles of your feet solidly pressed together like a little yogi as you sat on the floor, flung your arms outward, and threw yourself dramatically toward the objects you wanted.

Artistic flinging slowly progressed into tentative rolling, which progressed into this weird stretch of time where you’d more or less try to use your head to propel yourself forward.

It was hilarious.
Ultimately unproductive, but hilarious.

Once you realized you could get up on all fours, though, you went from tentative, slow-motion scoots to OH HEY I CAN GO PLACES, BYE FELICIAS in, like, 15 seconds.

Pretty much any time you’re even partially conscious now, YOU ARE READY TO CRAWL.

Within the first 24 hours of earning your crawling badge, you’d discovered that not ONLY do the cabinets on the TV stand open, but they also close.
And open.
And close.
And OPEN!!
AND CLOSE!!!!!!!
And then daddy & I found ourselves in front of the baby proofing section of Wal-Mart, sort of staring at all of it like, Is this our life right now? This is some kind of milestone, right?

We’re now realizing that the hardest part of baby proofing is actually remembering that, yes, we DID babyproof, and we can no longer just open cabinets like normal people.

Consequently, we’re about one Hulk-strong drawer/cabinet opening away from completely destroying our entire kitchen and entertainment center.

In other exciting news, your mouth is growing swords.
Apparently in most circles, they’re referred to as “teeth.”

Very swordy.

So far, teething hasn’t been the monumental event from hell that Pinterest has warned me about.
You want to chew on life more then normal, be held a lot more often, and your nose has transformed into an impressive snot-faucet, but overall, you’re basically being a rockstar about it.

Although you give zero effs about those ubiquitous teething keys that go in the freezer (which actually kind of suck and don’t stay cold for very long anyway), you’ve been really into gnawing your bendy banana brush,slightly creepy looking berry teether, and the infamous Sophie the Giraffe, who gets dirty stupid quick and also who we’ve renamed “Spot.” “Sophie” just sounded hilariously overkill for a rubber animal toy, especially one resembling a cheap dog chew that spends 100% of its life getting gnawed on.

Diaper changes are super fun these days, and by that I mean you are an Olympian crossed with a spider monkey & I’m just in awe of the way you can deftly escape my attempts to diaper you.

It’s as though the feeling of the changing pad underneath your tiny bum activates the part of your brain that desperately wants to perform a complicated floor routine.

Changing your butt is especially fun because you’re in cloth diapers 90% of the time, and so not only are we wrestling you to stay still, we also then have to keep you in place while we faff around with 800 snaps.


(Also, you have a promising career in gymnastics. If you ever make it to the Olympics, I’VE GOT STORIES ABOUT HOW WE ALWAYS KNEW.)

We officially have legit, “taken-by-a-real-live-pro-photographer” family pictures now—
shout out to aunt Naomi, WE LOVE YOUUUUU—
and I couldn’t possibly love them more.


Daddy and I looking through all the pictures on the computer one night turned into daddy & I looking through pictures going clear back to your first day in life.

There’s us as three, for the very first time, just hours after you were born.

There’s you, all swaddled-up and sleeping; a happy, brand-new burrito with a fuzz-dusting of hair.

Those first smiles at barely a month old, beaming up from your cozy blanket nest.

Your story so far, collected in a digital stack of love & light and topped with glorious, glorious cheeks.

This morning, you woke up like,

And that’s such a perfect summation of you, ‘cakes, right in this moment.

Life is big and exciting and new, and if you’re awake, YOU ARE ALL ABOUT ALL THE THINGS.

I always want you to keep that spark, my sweet light.
To be continuously excited about life, and breakfast, and how the trees look when we’re on walks.
To wake up and see the world with these very same bright eyes, every single day, and to feel like every morning is a brand-new chance to find something new and awesome to be pumped about.

It’s my most important goal in raising you—
to forever foster your spirit and encourage & support you in being you, whatever shape or form that looks like as you start to come into your own.

Here’s to us, and to you, and to all the rad things you’ve still yet to do.

I love you, tiny human.


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dear nixon: volume 4

you are officially seven beautiful months old, ‘cakes.

Seven whole months of sniffing your head, making fart noises on your cheeks, singing you songs about changing your butt, and marveling over what a rad little human you are—
and we’re still just getting started.

It is so cool to mama you.

In the past month, you’ve mastered the impressive art of sitting up unassisted.
Consequently, I am now having THE best time putting you places and watching the magic happen.

Like, you don’t even know how great it is that we don’t HAVE to haul your car seat in & out of places if we don’t want to.

I can buckle you into the cart at Target, and THERE IS ROOM FOR PURCHASES.
I can actually make use of the impossibly small Hobby Lobby carts (which, seriously, whose idea was that to make them so miniature when the majority of the store’s wonderful wares are the size OF the cart?).
I don’t have to perform random acts of child-carrying CrossFit just to enter and exit the grocery store.


The best part of this whole “sitting” deal is that you’ve convinced yourself that you can lift up into a sitting position, from laying down, without any help.

You’re SO thoroughly convinced of your own sitting-up abilities, in fact, that you attempt to invoke them the second you wake up.

We can gauge when you’re officially-actually awake & not just bridging sleep cycles, because you’ll go from eyes closed, fully baby-crashed, to flopping around like HI CHECK IT OUT I AM BABY TOAST and trying with all your tiny might to pop up into a sitting position.

It’s pretty freaking cute.

EXCEPT when you were doing it the other night at like, 3AM.

That was not cute.

While mama loves you and fully embraces your excitement about developing motor skills, there is a time and place for them and I assure you, it is not 3AM.

Here are your very favorite things about being seven months old:

  • bath time in your rad inflatable tub
  • panting when you’re excited, usually accompanied by waving arms and legs to fully punctuate your joy
  • green beans, marinara sauce and sauteed mushrooms
  • your Manic Tambourine Toy, the singing lady inside of which will frantically demand, “Shake, shake, SHAKE!” if you it sit still for too long (the last “shake” sounds like suspiciously like homegirl is on the verge of losing her shit)
  • developing a power arm juuuust as you’re falling asleep and launching your Wub across the room at like 60MPH
  • watching videos of yourself, during which you’ll be very pleased and occasionally offer commentary
  • randomly shouting and/or shrieking, then holding the last note for longer than I’d ever imagine your lung capacity could go

It continually blows my mind that, every afternoon, the chubby-cheeked, beautiful-eyed sunshine droplet sitting in the middle of the rug at daycare is lighting up because he sees me.

And reaching out his joyous little arms because he wants me.

And kicking his legs with glee because he just realized I’m there, and I am his, and he wants nothing more than for me to snuggle him up.

Have I told you lately that I love you so much it makes my breath catch?


Or that I live for being the cause behind one of your joyous, full-body giggles, and for the way it feels when you snuggle in & happysigh against my shoulder?

Because dude.
I do.
A thousand times over, I do.

You are sheer, wonderful magic in its most pure and fascinating form, and I love seeing the new ways it manifests with every new stage.

Recently, you’ve discovered that (1) my boob does not actually disappear once I’ve covered it back up after nursing and (2) if you dive-bomb at said boob while you’re sitting on my lap, you can nurse sitting up.

I know.
You were pretty impressed to figure this out, too.

The first time you landed a “bullseye,” you immediately popped back up and gave me this huge, gummy grin—
and then went proudly and deftly back in for round two with the stealth & speed of a pouncing snake.

Or a striking snake.

Whatever the thing is called where snakes just rear back & then go in for the kill really fast, THAT.

In short:
Life with you will never, ever be boring.

The closer & closer you’re getting to crawling, the more and more intentional I’ve become with savoring you at your most peaceful and still.

I soak in those little lashes, falling like feathery curtains over your tiny baby dreams.
And the way your sweet breaths sound.
And how those precious cheeks smush with such reckless, melted abandon.

My primary goal in parenting you is to fully embrace every single season, and to live in each moment of it as fully as I can.
I don’t want to look back and realize that I wasn’t present enough;
that I didn’t seize each season’s most magical parts as often as possible.

This season won’t last forever, tiny love.

So in the meantime, while we’re right here in this season’s halcyon, I’m soaking up every golden second—
and then it’s on to the next one, where we’ll do it all over again.

See you there, squishy love of my life.


I love you more than pizza.

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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

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.

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.


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—
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,

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,

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me, too, mama.

Because you were up feeding your tiny human at 10:34 p.m., 1:37 a.m., 3:28 a.m. and somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 a.m. this morning, and you still made it to work with actual pants on.


Because you’re staring down 1,000+ “suggested pins” about baby-led feeding, leading you down this insane, puree-ridden path lined with baby food mills, Montessori tables, mesh feeders and ice cube trays.

Because the most you’ve done with the vitamin D drops the pediatrician said you’re supposed to be giving to your exclusively breastfed baby… is feel guilty about how you’re not giving them to your exclusively breastfed baby.
And then you can’t decide if telling yourself, “Meh, they’re probably old anyway; they’ve just been sitting there, open, for over five months,” is based in actual logic…
or just a way for you to feel less bad about throwing them away.

Because the pediatrician gave you judgy eyes when you told her you’re still nursing your baby to sleep.


Because you just really, really need to know that, regardless of how the label on Hyland’s teething tabs says you’re not supposed to use them for longer than seven days in a row—
that people have, and do, and their kids are not, in fact, poisoned, damaged or deceased as a result.

Because every so often, mama guilt sneaks up to sucker-punch you about the fact that you’re working instead of staying home with your baby.
And then you compare the amount of hours in a week that you see the baby vs. the amount of hours your (fantastic) daycare lady does, and the mama guilt stabs you directly in the face.


With sound effects.

Because you know people mean well when they ask, “Is he sleeping through the night yet?”, which makes you feel even worse about wanting to throat-punch them in response.

Because every “Your Baby This Week” email since month three has been pushing “sleep training” on you, and you feel simultaneously guilty that you have no desire to do it and also worried that you’re ruining your baby’s entire life by making this choice.

Because you swear the motor of your breast pump sounds like it’s saying actual words sometimes.

Because you’re totally down to have a monstrous Pack and Play crammed into all the available real estate next to your bed—
blocking access to 90% of your dresser drawers and also your primary means of exiting the bed—
because you’re not ready, at all, for the baby to move all the way down the hall to his room, to sleep alone, all by himself, in his crib.

Because you brush out your hair with a comb, and then follow it with a second, claw-like brush-through with your own hand to grab all the postpartum sheddy hairs.

Because you still haven’t figured out the perfect “pajamas-to-space-heater-temperature” ratio that keeps your baby from waking up with ice-cold hands but also doesn’t turn your bedroom into the temperature of hell.

Because you occasionally find yourself #blessed with a four-hour stretch of sleep, at which point your body (trained for three-hour stretches) wakes up in a panic and immediately dives to feel the baby’s chest for movement/delicately hold a finger under the baby’s nose to feel breathing.

Because you still sometimes count on your fingers, in your head, to determine which size your baby’s going to be in which season.
And then you curse the brands that size things “6-12 months” because REALLY WHAT SORT OF SORCERY ARE YOU HOPING TO ACHIEVE HERE

Because any activity that takes place beyond 8 p.m. is basically the middle of the night.

Because you’re vividly aware of becoming “that person” whose social feeds are like, AND HERE IS ANOTHER PICTURE OF MY BABY BEIN’ BABY, and you acutely give zero effs because this is your life right now, praise the lawd and pass the throw-up blanket.

Because you’ve felt the very specific sense of defeat when you carry your heavy, bulky, giant-ass bucket car seat into the store, only to discover they’re out of/don’t have any of the cool carts & your child is now the entire contents of your cart.

And because sometimes, you just need a “me, too“—
a voice resonating in the great wide-open of motherhood that hears you, nods, and replies, “I get that.

Hey, mama?

I hear you.
I get that.

(And, P.S., you’re doing a really good job.)


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dear nixon: volume 2

dear squishy sunshine—

Last weekend, I celebrated my very first mother’s day, which initially felt super weird… sort of like I was trying to steal someone else’s birthday and insist that it was mine, or like I’d shown up to a party & wasn’t entirely sure I was supposed to be there.

Like… have I even mama’ed enough yet to qualify to celebrate?

Have I been in the club long enough to be able to participate in events?


But then we went out to eat, and when we stood up to leave, I realized I’d been wandering around all morning with a nice, colorful swath of your poo down the side of my shirt.

It wasn’t even subtle, dude;
it was solid, ribcage-to-hip, how-did-I-miss-this, what-is-my-life status.

And nothing quite affirms mamahood like having some form of your baby’s bodily fluids on you at all times.
(Today, for example, I’m wearing your dried post-breakfast hork on my left shoulder. Thank you.)

To further legitimize my mama status, I also scored my very-first-ever mother’s day craft from you.
Glitter was involved and I was appropriately proud.


In summation:
Glitter and your poo legitimized my participation in mother’s day.

Here is my current all-time-favorite picture of you:

That baby shade is real, bro.

It’s also really hilarious that someone with cheeks THAT WONDERFULLY SQUISHY could ever be so pissed off.

Your fourth month of life has been a big one, cutie cakes.

For starters, legitimately the second you swapped month three for four, you dove headfirst into The Four-Month Sleep Regression.
(It is a Thing.)

Did you know you can exist and NOT DIE on sleeping no more than two-hour stretches at a time?

The thing is… your daddy and I? We signed up for this.
On purpose.

Bodily fluids, the minimal sleep, the diapers, the tiny laundry, all the way back through nine months of sleeping in a complicated pillow arrangement—
all of it.

& like so many other things in this parenting gig so far (you know, because we’re CLEARLY experts now, having kept you alive for almost five entire months), it’s all about perspective.

Yeah, so we’re not sleeping a whole lot these days.
We’re living on a super-weird timeline where your 7:30 p.m. bedtime reigns supreme, and OKAY WE HAVE TO PICK, DO YOU WANT TO MAKE DINNER OR GO OUT AND BUY TOILET PAPER BECAUSE THERE IS ONLY TIME FOR ONE.
We wash your daycare bottles & my pump parts & your diapers & your mini clothes, stuff your diapers, fold your tiny clothes, put them all away, and repeat.
We have to bail out early from parties & places at which we’d love to stay an extra hour or two, or three.
We don’t see as much of our friends, or attend as many events, or have the same time to devote to as much beyond our little three-person universe as we used to.


It’s all simply part of the short, precious season we’re in right now.

Even the poop-covered parts.
Even the 2:30 a.m. parts.

Daddy & I high five in the mornings, celebrating another successful night of tag-teaming you back to sleep.
We stand over your crib, after you’ve baby-crashed in the Pack and Play down the hall, and Daddy separates out your diaper shells & inserts on one side while I stuff them and fold them together on the other.
Side by side, we fold your itty, fresh-washed onesies, your striped jammies and the pants with little embroidered animals on the butt, tucking them all into the dresser we painted for you before you arrived.
We sit in the living room after you’ve gone to bed, pulling up pictures & videos of you on our phones to show each other. (God, were you really that little just a couple of months ago? I miss those dinosaur jammies.)

We only ever get one baby Nixon—
one season of those baby chubber thighs,
of that gummy smile with the little tongue poking out,
of the downy, stand-up-straight hair at the back of your head that matches the color of afternoon sunlight.

I marvel over this fact all the time, like it’s some revolutionary thing that you’d grow and be not a baby someday.

And because of that, my love, you are the very greatest exercise in being present.

We’re smack-dab in the middle of living the days that we’re going to look back on and miss like hell when you’re older, and I fully intend to make the absolute most of them.

Including, and especially, by reading you books full of expletives you don’t know how to repeat yet.

Right now, your favorites list includes:

  • mirror baby
  • seeing Clementine, petting Clementine, watching Clementine intently any time she’s within your view because OMG COME OVER, PLEASE COME OVER I LOVE YOU
  • not wearing pants
  • sudden noises that would startle most other humans (see: daddy popping up over the side of your bed and growling)
  • yoga’ing your bare feet into your mouth
  • attempting to eat anything and everything you can grasp in your hands
  • running spontaneous 5K’s on your back, your little legs going a million miles an hour, the most concentrated look on your face

You’ve also fully discovered your ability to noise, which is amazing.
Your current library ranges from an assortment of short, one-note vowel sounds, to a delighted, variable-pitch chirp that sometimes takes you by surprise. You’ll occasionally hit new decibels with it and then stop to look around like, SWEET BABY JESUS WHO EVEN IS THAT

And also, oh my god, you giggle now.

If you thought daddy & I did intensely idiotic things before for your amusement, OH BRAH.
We have upped our game SO hard now that there’s the potential there of making you laugh.

Life is basically a series of events where the primary consideration is whether or not they’ll delight the hell out of you.
Current front-runners are “Watch as Mama Jumps Into the Air and Whips Her Hair Around,” “Daddy Can Make His Mouth Sound Like a Popping Cork” and “Mama’s Hands Are Also Weird Birds.

Absolutely are the stages yet to come going to hold their own magic, but there’s nothing in this whole world like baby you.

I’m so, so excited for all that’s yet to come; so, so thankful for all we’ve done together so far; and so, so delighted that this is only the very beginning.

Thanks for infusing our lives with so much awesome, squish.

Love you, love you so.

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