My baby is growing up.

I can’t believe 8 months have gone already; it feels like just yesterday I was in labour and delivered him into the world. Along with his growing body, Liam has also developed quite the personality. A bit stubborn, strong-headed and fiesty, like his mother, I suppose. And as all babies do, he’s learnt the tricks of the trade. It’s his eyes. The way he looks at me longingly to take him out of his pack-and-play, or as in my entry “Guilt Trip”, his silent pleading when I’m indulging in food that may not necessarily be baby-friendly. Or me-friendly for that matter. Its kind of cute, in an uncomfortable kind of way. In my mind I’m like, “No, stand firm, don’t fall for it, he’s perfectly fine where he is”, but my heart is like “Awww, you wanna come with mama?” and my arms are practically like “Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

The struggle is real.

However, I’m slowly but surely beginning to outwit Liam. Want to know how to outwit a baby?

Don’t let them see you.

Yep, don’t let them see you. And by that, I mean when they’re supposed to be sleeping. I’ve come to the conclusion that babies have some sort of sixth sense and they just know when you’re around. You don’t even have to speak. They just know. There’s nothing worse than battling with a tired baby for what seems like hours, (boy, do they fight the sleep) only to place their peaceful, limp bodies down and hear them stir less than a minute later. And by stir, I mean wake up. When you’ve been a mother for sometime, you figure out the difference between a “getting comfortable” stir and a “I’m up and ready to wreak havoc” stir. Whatever you do, do not let them see you. If they realise there is nothing to see, chances are, they will drift back to sleep. If you’re lucky. But if you so much as peer over the edge of their crib and make eye contact, you’re screwed. You can forget those plans for a night in front of a juicy episode of ‘Orange is the New Black’.

Move anything you actually want.

Did I mention Liam is crawling now?


Well, yeah. He’s crawling and moving pretty fast, too. Imagine my horror when I guffawed at the thought of baby-proofing my home for an on-the-move-baby, only to find out my house isn’t as baby-proof as I thought. Leave it up to Liam to prove it. The two flights of stairs in my home and a few loose extension cords from various appliances were obvious hazards; still working on the stairs problem and the cords were an easy fix. But, if Liam has anything to do with it, my entire living room would be bare. Everything he can find to play with (that aren’t his plethora of toys conveniently placed in his way), he will play with it. Whilst I’m working to remove one “hazard”, he’s on to something else before I even return. I imagine I’d eventually have to take on the culture of sitting on the floor to eat, because my wooden dining room set has become a hazard. Not to mention, have an exposed house with no curtains because those are apparently hazards, too.

In a nutshell, Liam would be a hell of a lot safer if I lived in a cardboard box.

All cries are not equal.

I really hate to hear babies crying, especially my own. But as they get older, they figure that out for themselves. So, they cry for everything.  Some cries are definitely genuine, like when they’re tired or physically hurt in some way. Sometimes, I take something away from him and crying ensues, but in my mind, he’s throwing a tantrum.

I don’t negotiate with tantrum-throwers.

As newborns, and for the first 4 months or so, they cry without tears but once they develop tears, they really know how to use them to their advantage. I know some of you must be saying, “Crocodile tears? I thought only toddlers/kids/adults do that!” No, no. Many a time I have put Liam in the safety of his pack-and-play to complete a task only to have him cry at the top of his lungs with the full dramatics, even with the sniffling and that nasal, snotty sound to boot. And I say to myself, “Oh, he’s really going at it. Let me STOP WHAT I’M DOING and set him free. However, what I find when I get to the pack-and-play is not an imprisoned baby in distress but an over-willing, teeth-baring, dry-eyed tyrant just waiting for me to pick him up. Oh, ho. Play the badass and turn away from him to continue my task, you say? He’ll just start up right where he left off, and for the sake of avoiding a call to child services,  I just take him out of the bloody pack-and-play.

Hm, I guess in this scenario I’m the one who’s been outwit, huh?

I find it amusing how this baby is developing into his own little person right before my eyes. I’m afraid to blink, for the fear that I’d miss it all. He’s going to be a one year old soon and I don’t know if I’m ready. Until then, I’m going to snuggle him and try to enjoy what “babyness” he has left. I’m acting like I’m sending him off to college already, I know, but in a way its kind of how it feels.

I think.

I’ll confirm that when I’m actually sending him off to college.

Until then.





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