I don't want him to grow up.

I just laid Milo down in his crib for the very last time. Then I cried big fat tears. Tomorrow night Milo is moving to his big-kid bed, a twin mattress on the floor. And I am not liking seeing my baby grow up. Right this second, picturing him laying there in his crib tonight, I'm tearing up again. He's getting so big, but he's still so small. He's still my baby, even though I keep telling him what a big boy he is. I wonder if seeing him tomorrow night in his enormous bed will make me believe it.

Less than two weeks to go

One year ago, I was hugely pregnant and sure I'd go into labor any minute. I had no idea what I was about to get into. Even if the me of today told the me of last year what this year would be like, I wouldn't have understood. There's honestly no way to explain what it's like to figure out how to be a mom. (You never really figure it out, by the way. There are always new challenges and new things to learn. Thankfully, Milo doesn't seem to have a clue that his dad and I are novices.)

Milo will be one year old in a little less than two weeks. In the most cliche way possible, this year has truly flown by. I watch Milo every day learning something new and figuring things out. And he amazes me. Just a few short months ago he couldn't even control his arm movements or lift his head. Now he can point, wave, bounce, climb, walk. And the list goes on.

I think Milo might be starting to say his first words. Like many things, his "first word" is fairly ambiguous. I think he has started saying something like a guttural "keekee" when he sees the kitty. I definitely hear "mamamama" when he wants to nurse. And this morning he may have pointed at the bookshelf and said "ehh-sit?" which sounded a lot like "what's this?" (Surely he can't be saying two-word phrases, right?) But the very first word to go in the old proverbial baby book? Not sure at all.

I'm thrilled that Milo is getting older and I'm sad that he's not staying small. More happy than sad. I can't wait to run around outside with him this summer or sing songs with him or take him to the petting zoo at Deanna Rose. He's just going to love that stuff.

What else?

When I arrived at daycare to pick Milo up this evening, I walked in to see him in the arms of one of his teachers, gripping his bottle and downing his milk. And his teacher wasn't even holding onto the bottle. And this surprised me.

I had this moment of shock and sadness. Shock, because I didn't realize that Milo could hold onto his bottle all by himself and didn't need any assistance. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by that; after all, he can pick up tiny pieces of food and bring them to his mouth pretty well, and he holds his little pink bottle as if his life depended on it. Why shouldn't he be capable of holding his bottle? The sadness hit me when I realized how much about Milo I don't know these days. If I didn't even know that, what else don't I know? What else happens during the ten hours a day I spend away from him? Can he walk? Read? Do long-division?

On the way home, I realized something else. Even if I was a SAHM, spending all day with Milo, I'd still be nursing. I still wouldn't know whether he could hold his own bottle.

So overreacting? Maybe. But I desperately miss being the one person who knew all those little things about him, the one person who knew him better than anyone.

Another First

Milo cried when I left him at daycare this morning.

I cried in the car on my way to work.

When it rains...

Things that have happened in the last two weeks:

• Milo got pinkeye.
• Milo had clogged tear ducts.
• Milo had ear infections in both ears.
• Milo threw up eight times in three hours (two nights before traveling).
• Milo and I flew to Washington, D.C., where Milo burped up his entire meal the first night, leaving me without any pj's and him without a sleep sack for the rest of the trip.
• Milo forgot how to poop, and seriously, four days is just too long to go without pooping.
• Milo spent half the flight back from D.C. crying, making me want to cry as well.
• Still reeling from my maternity leave and lack of a paycheck, we carried a balance on our credit card for the first time and had to get a cash advance from the bank when our checking account went into the negative.
• My car battery died, leaving me desperately calling around, trying to a) get someone to pick up Milo, and b) get someone to take me home.
• I fell further behind on my projects at work due to spending half a day trying to get my car fixed.
• My boobs began holding my milk hostage, refusing to let me pump the amount I know Milo needs.
• I dropped one of the bottles of pumped milk as I was putting it into my cooler bag, and it broke.
• Milo hasn't taken a decent nap in weeks, and is tired and cranky by the time he gets home in the evening, and it makes me so sad to only have fussy time with him each night.

The Time Has Come

I am a mess. An emotional wreck. I alternate between crying and being irrationally angry with Andrew. Milo starts daycare tomorrow, and I head back to work on Tuesday. And even though it's been a full six months—or maybe because it's been a full six months—I'm not ready for this.

Yes, I miss work. I love what I do, and I love my workplace and my coworkers. But how can I leave my baby in the care of people who are, for now, essentially perfect strangers? Of course Milo will have a good time. New toys, new faces to check out. But I like to think that he needs me and will miss me. I know I will miss him. Just typing that makes me tear up, and I'm not even kidding. I knew it would be hard to leave him at daycare, and I also knew that I would definitely be returning to work—no question. Though I knew these things before he was even born, that knowledge hasn't made it any easier now that the time has come.

Earlier tonight I loaded up a bag full of the stuff he'll need at daycare. Two crib sheets, a couple of spare outfits, a bunch of cloth diapers and wipes. I felt like I was packing his bags to send him off forever. And since mornings are going to be spent mostly getting ready and getting out the door, and evenings will consist of a whopping hour and half before Milo's bedtime, I practically am sending him off forever. I feel like I'm never going to see my baby anymore. And that breaks my heart. See you when it's time to start kindergarten, Milo.

I'm sure I'm sounding a little overly dramatic to those of you who have never dropped off your first child at daycare for the first time. But some of you know what I'm saying, right? And some of you have told me that it does get easier, and I can't tell you how much I'm holding on to that thought. You've also told me how wonderful his smile will be when he sees me walk through the door in the evening. I look forward to that, too.

I really, really love that little boy.

Where did this teeny baby go? How can he be six months old already?

Ruined!

Last weekend the hot weather finally broke and Andrew and I took the opportunity to have a picnic in the park. As we sat on our blanket, we entertained Milo, ate some sandwiches, and people-watched. Let me tell you about a few of the people we saw.

A family of four was out walking around the park. Mom, Dad, a little girl (maybe 8?), and a little boy (maybe 6?), out doing what families do. At this particular park, there is a pond with man-made stepping stones across it. Maybe 15 circular steps across, each twelve inches in diameter or so, with no guard rails. Well, the little boy began to cross the steps, holding Dad's hand. And he hadn't made it past more than four steps before he lost his balance and stepped into the pond. The water only came up to his knees, and he still had hold of his dad's hand, so he wasn't frightened. Dad began laughing, and the boy smiled too.

But the mom. SHE was not laughing. At. All.

"You think this is FUNNY?" she screeched at her husband. "He has RUINED his brand new shoes! Ruined!"

(They were just sneakers, by the way. Can't you just throw those things in the washing machine and call it a day?)

Then to the boy, who was no longer smiling: "I can't believe you ruined your shoes! How could you do that?! They're BRAND NEW and now they are RUINED! You RUINED your shoes and you RUINED our day at the park! We're going home!"

Then the boy started to cry as he hung his head in shame. Then they all walked (some of them stormed) out of the park and out of earshot.

This brief glimpse into another family's life got me thinking. How would I have handled that situation? I hope more like the dad, who laughed and made his kid feel less embarrassed. Maybe I would have taken off the boy's shoes and socks and let him try crossing the steps again. I really hope I wouldn't have yelled and embarrassed both my child and myself by screaming at him and my husband in public.

I wanted to ask that lady: Were those shoes worth it? New or not, were they worth your child's self-esteem and your dignity?

Tough Decision

I hate making really tough decisions. I always go back and forth, weighing the pros and cons until my head is about to explode. Andrew and I are in the middle of making a tough decision right now, but I feel like it's mostly me making the decision since Andrew already knows what he'd do if I weren't here. But I think I finally know what has to be done.

Here's the deal. We have this baby, whom we love more than anything. It is our job to protect him and care for him above all else. We also have this cat, who can be...vicious. And we have to decide whether or not to keep the cat. This cat has never been aggressive toward Milo. She ignores him for the most part. But when he's crawling around, reaching out and grabbing her tail, will she remain so passive?

I took Gary (the cat) to the vet yesterday, and she was absolutely terrifying. The vet said she was the most aggressive cat he's ever seen, almost to the point that he'd describe her as feral. She hissed and swiped and bit. It took fifteen minutes for the vet to wrangle her enough for the vet tech to give her her shots. Andrew had told me Gary was bad at the vet, but this was the first time I'd witnessed it. I was honestly afraid of her, and I was so thankful that my MIL was watching Milo. For the first time, I felt that Gary was a real and true threat to my family.

But the thing is, 90 percent of the time she is sweet and cuddly. She purrs so much, drool just drips out of her mouth. She's like a puppy; she waits by the door when we get home. She loves to sit on our laps and snuggle next to us at night.

The other 10 percent of the time, however, is a completely different story. She swipes at us when startled or when she doesn't want to do what we want her to do. She hisses at our guests. She pees wherever she feels like it, often right in front of us, as if to say, hey, eff you guys, I'll do what I want and you can't stop me. She scratches on the furniture when she wants food or attention. She shreds the carpet when a door is closed to a room she wants to be in. This morning Andrew reached down to pick her up and she swiped at him, leaving a bleeding scratch on his lip.

Honestly, do I even have a choice? Something has to change. Do we make her an outdoor cat, hoping she'll work out her aggression and energy outside, but risking that she'll become even wilder when she's home? Do we try to find another home for her, somewhere where she can be outdoors with lots of land to run around on? Or do we go with Andrew's preferred choice and have her put to sleep? But I couldn't do that. We've had her for five years, and despite her many, many faults, I love her and feel responsible for her. She's my first pet, and the first pet Andrew and I got together.

But there's Milo. And I have to do what is best for him. And if there is even a chance that Gary would hurt him, then she has to go. I can't wait until it happens, then feel regret that I didn't take action sooner. We're planning to ask Andrew's aunt and uncle, who live out in rural Missouri, if they will take her. Take her back, actually, since it was they who found her in their barn when Gary was just a day or so old. (Robin, if you read this, whaddya say?)

In my heart I know Gary has to go. But I swear, I'm gonna miss that goddamn cat.

Just look in those kitten eyes. You can see the future staring right back at you.

Eventually Gary would conquer this sofa and shred it all to hell.
Look at that tongue!
Gary reeeaaally hated wearing that jack-o-lantern hat. For the life of me, I can't imagine why.

Maybe in the end, this decision isn't so difficult after all.