You go by a lot of names around here - though never, ever Lucas unless you want to see dad shoot me that look that screams “That’s NOT his name!” for the thousandth time in your one year on this earth. I know, I know. We wanted something simple for you, and given my love of three Lukes throughout my life - Skywalker, Perry (RIP) and Danes - it was an easy choice.
So you’ve got the no muss, no fuss name. You had an easy, very little muss birth.
So you’ve got the no muss, no fuss name. You had an easy, very little muss birth.
And that’s about where the notion of “simple” ends with you, bud.
I’ll preface this by saying you have amplified my heart’s capacity for love in a way I never expected, certainly not after having my first kid and thinking, “Huh. Well, that’s the most I’ll ever be capable of love in my life.” You came out, settled into my chest, knocked that theory right out of the room and continue to do so every single second I spend with you.
That being said.
Man alive, have you given me and dad a run for our money. They say second kids are always tougher than their siblings because the first one creates the illusion that this parenting business is a breeze and continuing to populate the earth is the best idea ever. Lib did a bang up job of this. From the minute she came home, she loved her sleep and wanted to be left alone in the comfort of her crib to get it.
You refused to sleep anywhere other than your baby swing, so that meant four months of me sleeping next to you on the couch, waking up every three hours to feed you and countless times in between to make sure you were still breathing. (If any other parents or pediatricians are reading this, yes, I know, letting your baby sleep in a swing is about the worst thing you can possibly do, on par with turning their crib into a giant ball pit and just hoping they can occasionally claw their way to the surface. But it was the only way he would sleep. So it was either the swing with my fear of him suffocating waking me every 10-15 minutes or no sleep for anyone in the house ever. I opted for swing.)
So those first few months were a little rough. I’m not saying you were a bad baby, you were just...let’s go with “not low-maintenance.” You refused to adapt to any kind of routine I tried to force upon you, so I could never bank on a window of Luke-free time. You whined a lot. You demanded my full attention a lot. You spit up A LOT.
But in between all that, boy, did you ever find your own little ways to inject joy into every single day. From the instant you came home, you became enamored with your sister and have worshiped her every moment since.
All she has to do is glance your way and your face twinkles like a firework. She, in turn, treated you with general indifference for the first few months. Really, up until about now. Because now, you are no longer just some chubby lump whose main functions include stealing focus and caterwauling.
Now, you can booty scoot.
That is your main mode of transportation. You’ve clearly decided crawling is not enough of an upper body workout and you’ve taken to dragging yourself from point A to point B. I absolutely love this. Your doctor does not. But listen, you’re also pulling yourself up to stand so I know one day, I’m going to do something like reach for the TV remote and turn around to see your confidently striding up to me. I can just about guarantee it.
I can also guarantee the reason I’ll be reaching for the remote is because you are screeching at me to put on your favorite show. Because you love - no that’s too weak a word - you exist for “Little Baby Bum.” It’s a British cartoon on Netflix in which children and various animals including a cow, pig, sheep and spider (who is, terrifyingly, the same size as the barnyard animals) sing nursery rhymes. That’s it. No plot. No narrator. No nothing other than singing in adorable British accents for hours on end. You would watch this from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to sleep if I let you. And trust me. It’s tempting to let you. It puts you into some kind of trance and allows me to actually get a few things done. Or just sit and breathe. Or calm my mind until all I’m capable of is singing along to the mindless lyrics. Because these aren’t all winners, bud. “Ice cream, ice cream, chocolate ice cream. Ice cream, ice cream, chocolate chip. Ice cream, ice cream, strawberry ice cream.” You get the idea.
Now what else did I want to tell you? Why can’t I think?
“Ice cream, ice cream on a hot day. Ice cream in the month of May!”
Damn you, Baby Bum!
OK, I digress. Listen, you’re incredibly cute. You have giant blue eyes, wispy blonde hair, and THE CHUNKIEST THIGHS OMG on any baby ever. You also have this sausage thing happening where you don’t have a wrist, just arm chunk then chubby hands. I love it so much. I tickle you and pinch you and kiss you and just generally love on you every minute I’m with you.
It’s exhausting.
Also, I love it and please never stop. If you love me half as much when you’re grown as you do at this stage of your life, I will consider myself the luckiest mom on the planet.
Because, you know what, bud? The feeling is completely mutual.
Xox,
I’ll preface this by saying you have amplified my heart’s capacity for love in a way I never expected, certainly not after having my first kid and thinking, “Huh. Well, that’s the most I’ll ever be capable of love in my life.” You came out, settled into my chest, knocked that theory right out of the room and continue to do so every single second I spend with you.
That being said.
Man alive, have you given me and dad a run for our money. They say second kids are always tougher than their siblings because the first one creates the illusion that this parenting business is a breeze and continuing to populate the earth is the best idea ever. Lib did a bang up job of this. From the minute she came home, she loved her sleep and wanted to be left alone in the comfort of her crib to get it.
You refused to sleep anywhere other than your baby swing, so that meant four months of me sleeping next to you on the couch, waking up every three hours to feed you and countless times in between to make sure you were still breathing. (If any other parents or pediatricians are reading this, yes, I know, letting your baby sleep in a swing is about the worst thing you can possibly do, on par with turning their crib into a giant ball pit and just hoping they can occasionally claw their way to the surface. But it was the only way he would sleep. So it was either the swing with my fear of him suffocating waking me every 10-15 minutes or no sleep for anyone in the house ever. I opted for swing.)
Proof that I did eventually get you to sleep in a crib so no one calls protective services on me. And I know - the blanket. It's crocheted so there are holes should he pull it over his face. Ok? Ok.
But in between all that, boy, did you ever find your own little ways to inject joy into every single day. From the instant you came home, you became enamored with your sister and have worshiped her every moment since.
That's Lib singing in the car and you acting like you're at a concert for the most revered diva in the music biz.
All she has to do is glance your way and your face twinkles like a firework. She, in turn, treated you with general indifference for the first few months. Really, up until about now. Because now, you are no longer just some chubby lump whose main functions include stealing focus and caterwauling.
Now, you can booty scoot.
That is your main mode of transportation. You’ve clearly decided crawling is not enough of an upper body workout and you’ve taken to dragging yourself from point A to point B. I absolutely love this. Your doctor does not. But listen, you’re also pulling yourself up to stand so I know one day, I’m going to do something like reach for the TV remote and turn around to see your confidently striding up to me. I can just about guarantee it.
I can also guarantee the reason I’ll be reaching for the remote is because you are screeching at me to put on your favorite show. Because you love - no that’s too weak a word - you exist for “Little Baby Bum.” It’s a British cartoon on Netflix in which children and various animals including a cow, pig, sheep and spider (who is, terrifyingly, the same size as the barnyard animals) sing nursery rhymes. That’s it. No plot. No narrator. No nothing other than singing in adorable British accents for hours on end. You would watch this from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to sleep if I let you. And trust me. It’s tempting to let you. It puts you into some kind of trance and allows me to actually get a few things done. Or just sit and breathe. Or calm my mind until all I’m capable of is singing along to the mindless lyrics. Because these aren’t all winners, bud. “Ice cream, ice cream, chocolate ice cream. Ice cream, ice cream, chocolate chip. Ice cream, ice cream, strawberry ice cream.” You get the idea.
Now what else did I want to tell you? Why can’t I think?
“Ice cream, ice cream on a hot day. Ice cream in the month of May!”
Damn you, Baby Bum!
OK, I digress. Listen, you’re incredibly cute. You have giant blue eyes, wispy blonde hair, and THE CHUNKIEST THIGHS OMG on any baby ever. You also have this sausage thing happening where you don’t have a wrist, just arm chunk then chubby hands. I love it so much. I tickle you and pinch you and kiss you and just generally love on you every minute I’m with you.
I mean.
Which might explain why you are the biggest Mummy Sucker on the planet. That’s the term our family uses for babies who cannot function without their mother’s undivided attention and you, my friend, are their king. You are constantly either in my arms or in my lap or pulling at my legs or nuzzled into my chest. You don’t like me to do much of anything other than snuggle you, play with you, and just be all about you you you.
It’s exhausting.
Also, I love it and please never stop. If you love me half as much when you’re grown as you do at this stage of your life, I will consider myself the luckiest mom on the planet.
Because, you know what, bud? The feeling is completely mutual.
Xox,
Mama
