Dear Boo,

If Month 7 was you as a work-in-progress, Month 8 is a checklist of work completed. You still have no teeth, but that hasn’t stopped you from eating. The stutter start peaches of Month 7 have been overshadowed by the entire pancake you ingested in Month 8. The crawling? That is so March 2nd to you. So 3 weeks ago. Why crawl when you could work on your Vertical Olympic skills? You have the bruises to prove your dedication to the sport of pulling up. Pulling up on so much stuff, that I’m not allowed to send you to daycare without shoes. The slipping and sliding has become far too hazardous to your health.

Once you realized you could actually move to retrieve whatever you want, the best summary of your attitude is “Game On”. I watch you go for things, and always take a quick calculation of the different ways you could hurt yourself. I’m am always, 100% of the time, sure fire…WRONG. It amazes me the million different ways you can knock your head. Your big, gigantic, cute like a fat melon head. When the bellowing starts, I pick you up. Why? Sheer habit. Sara clings to me like a sucking black hole when she so much as grazes her skin. You give me a look like, “What? Am I bleeding? Put me down so I can grab that bitch of a table that just attacked my noggin and show that whore who’s in charge.” And by God, you then proceed to re-enact whatever event just caused you harm, and succeed in a damage-free feat of strength. Your tenacity is unparalleled in this house of decidedly uncoordinated monkeys.

The bad news of the month is that you inherited your Pa Pa Bump’s skin. He is going to wholeheartedly disagree and tell you that you inherited MY skin. Right. At 82 years of age he now has a perma-rash so mysterious on his forehead, that even the best dermatologists have been unable to diagnose or cure it. I have what one would call “rashy” skin, and clearly, this DNA has called your cells, home sweet home. You seem oblivious to the random blotches that travel about your torso at almost lightening speed, and are so frequent that your pediatrician has sent a note to daycare that communicated the sentiment, “Kelly has rashy skin. It isn’t a virus. It will go away. And come back. Deal with it.”

I’ve tried to narrow down the causes, but you are a poster Second Child. I introduce new things into your diet and environment at an almost dizzying rate. When the pediatrician asked me last visit while quizzically looking at your non-eczema, non-allergy not quite blotches-blotches, “What new things has she been exposed to?”…wow, that list was um, embarrassingly long. What? It’s wrong to give a toothless baby waffles? I CUT it up. First time Moms look at me like I dipped you in a vat of strawberries while feeding you honey covered peanuts. “Lori, you need to take away all solids, and then reintroduce them ONE AT A TIME FOR SEVEN DAYS STRAIGHT.” Great. By your sophomore year of college we’ll know you can tolerate squash. Second time Moms tell me to cook you a nice skillet of scrambled eggs so we can settle the propensity for food allergy question once and for all. Third time Moms tell me to dip you in a vat of strawberries while feeding you honey covered peanuts. I tell everyone you can’t tolerate detergents, because that is the best hypothesis I can support after collecting mountains of evidence and analyzing countless SAS datasets. Sorry kid, you are a dermatological alpha case of rashes: my executive abstract summary of your skin.

Which brings me to a sticking point in your schedule that creates chaos for everyone but the two of us: your pooping. You are, and to say this in a non-delicate way, a pooper. Like if I catch you pooping, I have milliseconds before a green clay-like substance shoots up your back and hits your hairline. This happens, on average, 3 times a day. I think little of it. I’m a nurse, and I don’t get worked up much about the activity of one’s colon. All nurses will say about all bodily functions, “I’ve seen much worse.” I’m not sure how public you will be about this topic, as transparency on the issue varies widely within our family. Your Grandma Sally will call in sick to work and say things like, “I have massive diarrhea. If I come to work, I might not make it to the bathroom.” When I called her on the unnecessary graphic detail included in those comments, she seemed surprise. “Well Mom, you basically told your boss you might crap in your office. One might deem that…a bit…I don’t know…TMI.” Whereas your Aunt Jenny has yet to admit to anyone on EARTH that she has ever taken a mighty dump. Should she have diarrhea, she would call in sick and report that she has cancer. She would then shave her head and fake chemo nausea for months, just to avoid the topic. I’ll respect wherever on that scale you choose to fall.

Tonight in the tub you and Sara decided to have a squawking splash fest. It was hilarious and very, very wet. Your face was electric with happiness as you splashed the water and tried to use your vocal chords to make new sounds that thrilled you. I thought at that moment it was an analogy to your life. You are not the person who will tiptoe into a cold pool, testing the waters every inch of the way. You, my dear Boo Boo Chicken, you are the brave soul who meets a placid, new pool, and without question or hesitation, CANNONBALLS your way in. You would never ask if the water were cold, thereby taking away a piece of the mystery that awaits you. I can’t say in 8 months, I’ve ever seen fear in your eyes. You are my guts-apottamus. You are things in my secret heart, I wish I could be. I am in awe of your every move, and ecstatic to be in your life. Thank you for this glorious ride.

Your Loving Swim Coach,

Mommy