Our little dude is nine months old today. He’s 18 pounds and 28 inches long. I don’t even care. I just know he’s amazing and perfect. He’s so amazing and perfect that it helps me forget when he’s using his eight teeth to chew on skin that’s not his own in the middle of the night or when he doesn’t think you’re paying attention to him when he’s having a little meltdown, so he cracks you right in the lip with his head that’s as hard and solid as a cue ball. I just love his face anyway.
Tonight, as I sang him Twinkle Twinkle and the ABCs, I realized I still don’t know a damn lullaby.try to start that whole “Hush Little Baby” thing, but it ends up going something like this:
Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s gonna by you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don’t sing,
Mama’s gonna by you a golden ring.
And if that golden ring is fake,
Mama’s gonna buy you an Easy Bake.
And if that Easy Bake won’t cook,
Mama’s gonna buy you a magic book.
And if that book doesn’t teach you tricks,
(Pause here and consider rhyming tricks with something really awesome…)
Mama’s gonna give you a bag full of sticks.
And if those sticks won’t burn in the fire,
Mama will straight up hand you some barbed wire.
And if that stuff doesn’t cut your skin,
Mama thinks we’ll just call it a big parenting win.
And then he’s usually asleep, so I feel like my creative liberties are working to some degree. I really don’t care enough to learn the real lyrics anyway.