40-43 Weeks

Arlo is 43 weeks old today, almost 10 months. Which is almost a year! Which is mindblowing.

At his 9-month check-up about 2 1/2 weeks ago, he was 22 pounds and 28". He's right on track for growth and development, but his dome is officially off the charts. When we asked Dr. Robbins if we should be concerned that our child's head is in the one hundred and first percentile, she responded, "No, it's most likely hereditary. One of you may have a large head." How diplomatic of her. I'm chuckling just thinking about it. It took everything I had not to say, "Not it!" My poor big-headed boys.

I'm in love with both of those noggins.

No major updates with regards to Arlo's development. He's just mastering all of his old tricks. He claps on command now, and he's definitely doing it to express joy 75% of the time. The other 25% of the time, he's just doing it to make noise. There's nothing this dude loves more than causing a ruckus.

Clappity-clap-clap!

He's still using furniture (or guitars, or walls, or whatever else can handle his weight) to support himself as he goes from point A to point B, but every now and then, he lets go of one piece of furniture as he maneuvers himself to another piece. He never takes actual steps while he does this, but he has no problem steadying himself without support for a couple seconds. He can already get anywhere he feels like going, so mama's ready for those first steps!

Steadying himself and making a bunch of noise. Double win!

He's developed a couple of habits—one adorable, one super strange. First, he enjoys contorting his body into odd positions in order to look under things, like furniture to find lost toys, or gates to see who's on the other side. Ridiculously cute, right?

 

Right.

 

I don't have a photo of the not-so-cute habit, and you should thank me. Apparently, Arlo's preparing for a famine, because he's become quite fond of storing food in his cheeks. Not just for a few minutes. For hours. For instance, last week, I met Arlo and Danny at The Little Gym during my lunch break, and my crazy child greeted me with a chicken smile. This piece of chicken survived the entire duration of Arlo's class. Every time he grinned or screamed, the class got a nice glimpse of said chicken. That wasn't embarrassing or anything. 

Blurry at The Little Gym

Speaking of The Little Gym, we signed up for a free class last week to help us decide whether or not we should enroll Arlo for the semester. It's been an exceptionally horrendous winter, and I hate that he's holed up inside all day. Also, he's rarely around other babies, so the interaction would be beneficial. However, he came down with a cold two days after the class, so I'm having reservations now. He's been kind of sheltered, and cold season may not be the right time to plunk him into a class with a bunch of other snotty, drooling babies. Plus, it's pretty expensive, and since hiring our nanny, Luda, we don't have much expendable income.

 

Onto Luda. We've had her for a month now, and we couldn't be happier with her. She loves Arlo, and I can't believe how he lights up when she arrives in the mornings. I never, ever worry about his welfare while I'm at work because I know he's in great hands. This peace of mind is well worth being broke over.  

 

Now, here comes the photo dump you were probably expecting:

 

He loves his pets.

I like to spy on him. It's so fun to watch him explore his little world all by himself.

 

Daddy bought him a cowboy hat.

 

He unraveled toilet paper and held up a piece of it triumphantly.

He looked cute.

 

He humored his mother and played dress-up. (Is there a secret to keeping a hat on a baby's head for more than 9 seconds? Do you have to glue it on?)

 



He wore the first thing Danny picked out for him on the day we found out that was a boy in my belly. (And don't mind that crusty hair. It's just a little bit of dried chewed-up cracker. No biggie.)

See it? I remember thinking it'd be a hundred years before we'd be able to put it on our little dude.

 

37, 38, and 39 Weeks

Arlo is 39 weeks and 2 days old, and there are a million things I want to mention here—which is no surprise since I haven't updated in three weeks.

 

We have a lot on our plates right now. There's my mother-in-law's stroke, of course. Suffice it to say that she isn't improving, and it's agonizing to see her in a nursing home bed, half-paralyzed and unable to comprehend the gravity of her situation. She still has a contagious infection, so she hasn't seen Arlo in five weeks—and I'm getting scared that he'll forget her.  

 

On top of that, my sister is living a nightmare that nobody should ever, ever have to experience—a situation that deserves its own post, so that'll be coming soon.

 

Now, let's talk about this guy:

 

Boob pillow.

 

He is busy. If he's awake, he's undoubtedly exploring the house, and he definitely makes it impossible for me to just park my butt on the couch all evening. Why is it that he can have fifty toys scattered around the house, and he inevitably goes after the one accessible non-toy (e.g., my phone charger, Scooter's toy, the remote, a shoe)? And why do I bother spending money on toys? He played with a red Solo Cup for a half-hour the other day.

 

He's a very independent boy. For example, a couple days ago, I spent two hours organizing and doing some things around the house, and he was perfectly content roaming around the gated-off living room the whole time, just entertaining himself. You are the greatest company, Arlo.    

 

A couple times, he's stood up without support for a nanosecond—but he spends the majority of his days pulling himself up while steadying himself with furniture, our legs, or the window sill. He loves looking out the window and babbling, especially when it's snowing.  

 

The first time I caught him doing this.

Sometimes, Scooter joins in the fun, except he doesn't babble.

 

The hundredth time I caught him doing this.

 

Arlo's back on schedule with regards to sleep. He makes it through the night again—and has been known to give us twelve solid hours. On a related note, a few times, he's fallen asleep in random spots, which is off-the-charts adorable.

 

These puffs are borrrring.

 

He's also started clapping, and I'm not sure if he's doing it to express joy, or if he just likes doing it, but I can't get enough of it.

He's just getting over a nasty cold that peaked in severity on Christmas Eve/Christmas morning. Of course. He was too miserable to enjoy his presents, so that was a major bummer. He was sick. Every ten minutes, he sneezed and shot snot out both nostrils. His eyes were watery, and he just looked pitiful. Danny and I only made him unwrap one of his presents, and we unwrapped the rest. Hello, anticlimactic 1st Christmas.

 

Books are for eating.

 

Poor sickie's only smile of the morning.

 

He acted less miserable (but just as snot ridden) in the evening, and he played a little.

 

Stacking cups FTW!

 

Another note about Christmas:  Arlo somehow choked on a piece of tape—I mean legitimately choked (i.e., stopped making noise and started changing color)—and Danny had to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on him. I don't remember the last time my heart pounded so hard. I'm getting a knot in my stomach just thinking about it. Horrifying. I'm so glad Danny knew exactly what he was doing. Go brush up on baby first aid. Go, go, go.  

 

Four days before Christmas, we made the long, long trek to Michigan to celebrate with my siblings and their kids. It was Scooter's first big road trip, and they were both such good boys.

  

Timing is everything.

 

Fortunately, Arlo wasn't sick yet for our mini-Christmas, so he did get to experience opening presents.

 

Sad this shitty, grainy picture is the only one we got.

 

He had no interest. Because duh, there were bows to chew on.

 

We rang in 2014 at home last night, and it was a more successful celebration than Christmas. Arlo was happy.

 

Making him sit still in a chair has become a joke.

Here's another one because I couldn't pick.

Despite everything, we all were. We all are. You know, overall.