Jackson is now nine months old, which makes him the same age as the amount of months he spent in utero hearing “Is this cheese pasteurized?”. For some reason, it brings me back to the morning that I–or should I say we–found out that I was pregnant. Like all good pregnancy test stories, it involved a group of girls running down Franklin Street in Chapel Hill in their outfits from the night before and buying a pregnancy test and eight Gatorades at Walgreens, followed by said group of girls breaking down the door to Michael’s hotel room to wake him up and tell that indeed he was going to be a father. Best. Morning. Ever.
And, although we knew our lives were about to change forever for the better, we had no clue as to how much joy, hope, love, happiness, and boxes of diapers that little pink line would bring us.
It turns out that, combined with toys and outside time, we bring him joy as well. His nine month (at home) favorites include:
Mail Time: All magazines might as well be addressed to Jackson Hutson. I’ve become a master magazine rater based on thickness of paper. People Magazine ranks last due to the incredibly thin paper which rips and dissolves in his mouth within seconds. Thick magazines like this Crate and Barrel have about a 4-minute dissolvable rate per page.
Wagon Rides: Always looking as pompous as George Washington crossing the Delaware. The importance of the squirrel-finding mission is not lost on him.
Swing: While the kid has zero chill inside, he can straight up chill in a swing.
Activity Table:Before he could pull up or stand up on his own, we took the legs off and he played with it constantly. While the height is adaptable, I can assure you the two sing-songs it plays are not so much.
Notable mentions: dirty keys, shoes, cardboard, the recycling bin, jars in the refrigerator, plastic bags, dry diapers, bags of wipes, empty water bottles, cords, cords, and cords.
When all of these fail to appease him and I have taken him on enough wagon rides to cover the distance of the Oregon Trail, we leave the house. We try to do at least two outings a day, otherwise witching hour becomes witching hours and I become the witch of the hour.
Finally (did i say finally!), it is Daddy’s arrival at the end of the day that it is his favorite. Unlike a borderline rude text followed by a winking emoticon, Boogs true feelings aren’t left to interpretation. If he likes something, he will flail one of his arms with a grin. If he loves something, both of his arms will flail uncontrollably. Without a doubt, this is a two-arm flail every single night.
And those two smiles not only make it happy hour, but the happiest of hours.