Asher's been copying people's actions since...well, way back. When he was feeling up to imitating a raspberry or clapping or silly kissy noises, there was usually a significant delay. Plus, he'd often seem unsure of himself and his abilities.
No longer.
Some months ago, a good friend of ours chuckled when I asked if I was allowed to start calling Asher a toddler. "He doesn't walk," she said. "And he doesn't know how to say no."
Well, Asher still doesn't do either of those things, even if he is close. But he sure wants to walk, and he sure understands the word no.
This year's Haury/Dawson trip to Florida is starting to wind down. Early Saturday, Meg, Ash and I will be on a flight headed back to Charlottesville. If he manages to sleep on the trip, Ash will undoubtedly still be dreaming of the gentle, lulling Gulf Coast waves.
Sitting up has to be the most under-appreciated, least anticipated milestone that a kid goes through in their first half-or-so-year. Goodness knows I wasn't waiting for it. But man, is it a biggy.
There have been so many developments in the last month. Daycare started last week. (It's going great.) Crawling is, like, hours away from happening. (Asher just needs to turn that on-all-fours backwards scoot into forward motion.) His face is becoming more expressive every day. (Smiles galore.) He's constantly testing his voice. (A whole bunch of gleeful shrieking, especially for one unlucky daycare employee. The poor soul.)
But the one that has me and Meg tickled at the moment is this sudden realization that the stuff Ma and Pa are cramming in their maws is FOOD.
The sleep problems Asher had were almost quaint at first. He slept only when held, but when he slept, he slept deep. In the first few weeks after coming home, there were a handful of nights where he really was getting the sleep he needed.
Of course, Meg was sleeping propped in a seated position, Asher cradled in her arms. That's a tenable solution for maybe three nights.
This weekend, Asher and I shared our first communal cold. Parents more experienced than I inform me that every cold from here on out – as well as every stomach bug, bout of pink eye, and ring worm – will also be shared. And the frequency of such events will increase on an exponential scale.
Right now, there's a tight group of people that spend time with Asher on a regular repeating basis, and recently we've all started voicing the same worry: Am I interesting enough for this kid?
Today was Asher's two month doctor's appointment. Meg and I have commented with increasing frequency about his rapidly increasing size. It feels unlikely that at one point we worried that, as the nurses suggested, we might have to supplement his feeding. With what I don't know. Steakums maybe?
I've got an assignment for you. Go turn on TLC during the daytime hours – preferrably somewhere between 1 and 3. You there? Cool. Start a stopwatch. Now see how long it takes for some well-meaning, over-earnest, imaginary mom to mention BABY'S FIRST SMILE.
Five minutes. And that's being generous.
When Meg was still pregnant, I'd joke about our baby's probable birth weight. Nine or 10 pounds sounded perfectly reasonable to me, and I had very little experience with gauging the relationship between an expectant mother's giant belly and the size of the baby within. If I'd been a little less conscious of Meg's feelings, I might have even suggested a much higher number. Is 13 pounds reasonable? Why are you crying?
Now, of course, I realize how truly idiotic that question would have been. A 10 pound baby is big. Really big. I might lose or gain two pounds of water weight on a long weekend run, but a two pound shift in a toddler's total size is a no-joke kind of situation.
Week four was the week Meg and I finally started feeling normal enough to bring Asher out into the world. Thursday, there was the trip to Dad's office. Friday, the first stroller walk around the block. Today, the first trip to Nana and Papa Haury's house.
As much as I miss him when I'm at work, it's been a sanity making experience, re-establishing the whole work routine. Meg's teaching one class this semester, but do the math. If you're only out of the house for four or six hour stints twice a week, that means you're spending a crazy insane amount of time indoors, shuttling between the bed and couch.
I started to compose this smug little ditty three days days ago. It was all about peaceful, compliant babies who sleep (nearly) full nights right out of the womb.
I've heard a good dozen stories in the last several months from parents who'd had "angel babies." What makes an angel baby? If you're listening to these parents, these are the kids that can, among other things, switch off immediately, 3PO-style, and stay that way for at least four hours, every night.
Welcome Asher James Dawson to the world. His mom and I couldn't be more enamored with him. I'm holding my breath to see if maybe this isn't just some strange sleep-deprived honeymoon period we're experiencing. But I wouldn't count on it. Right now, I wouldn't trade this gig fatherhood gig for anything in the world.
Three weeks ago, Meg compiled a list of all the folks that needed to be on the baby announcement email. In retrospect, the best thing I could have done was send a simple, single email to the whole list, right off the bat. THERE IS NO BABY. YET. BUT YOU ARE ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT LIST.
Meg and I spent the better part of five months talking about our now almost-baby in very gender-certain terms. We couldn't have possibly cared less about the sex, though I will admit to experiencing a sudden, exhilarating rush of virile delight when the news finally came. In conversation, though, we posited that a girl might just be...well, easier.
Honestly, it was mostly the clothes.
Despite our best guesses about which part was where, this undetectable-bean-sprout-turned-man-child in Meg's belly actually does have his head down as, I'm informed, he's supposed to. Those are his feet pummeling her right lung, but that's his pooper we've been talking into for the last two-and-a-half weeks. The kid's gotta be getting a good chuckle out of this.