Henry is the most fun, most smiley, most vocal thing now. He's babbling and eating table food and playing and crawling. He's pulling himself up on stuff (I'm not ready for a walker!) and snuggling more and as observant as ever. He's got two razor sharp teeth and a head that's not so much hairy as it is fuzzy.
I'm going to have to start moving certain items a little higher and out of his reach. Particularly the onions. I have two baskets on the bottom shelf of my kitchen card: one for onions and one for sweet potatoes. For some reason, he always goes for the onions and eats the papery skin.
This is my favorite age of his, I think. I loved newborn, and I love nine months. I haven't delved into the topic much, but I really struggled from about five months to eight months. It was entirely hormonal, but I talked to a doctor about it who said it was probably a bout of late-onset postpartum triggered by some hormonal shifts. I loved my baby and husband, and was still somehow fulfilled in taking care of my baby. But I didn't like myself or anything else. I felt angry most of the time, and had kind of a dull sadness the rest of the time. It took a lot of prayer and personal work, but I'm in a great place now. Mother's Day was really a fantastic time celebrating my first baby and experience with motherhood.
I'm so grateful to have been ushered into motherhood as easily as I was. Some women wait and wait for years, or aren't able to get there the way they planned. Henry came to us as a blessing, an answer to a prayer. He continues to be my answer. And Conrad, the handsome, hard-working, nerdy, handy, smart man who's my partner and best friend through all of it. My number one. He makes me happy, and I'm the luckiest for having found such a compatible person.
Anyway, this post was supposed to be about Henry, so I'll wrap it up by saying I love my life, I love my family, I love nine months. Over and out.
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