11. A Noble Moniker

Hi, I'm Noble. I'm a virgo, born just this past September. My mom, an aquarius, and dad, a gemini, thought it'd be a winning idea to borrow the elegant portmanteau from Outkast and name me Noble Aquemini Moreno. I don't have any feelings about it. Yet. But those who've tried pronouncing my middle name have admitted to some feelings of inadequacy. Personally, I can't even spell the thing much less speak it aloud. Maybe we'll learn together? Let's break it down.

Aquemini:
                     (uh-kwem-uh-nye) 1. Originating from the rap duo, André 3000 (a gemini) and Big Boi (an aquarius), aka OutKast, an Aquemini is someone whose lifestyle or personal swag is the embodiment of the inventiveness, tone, creativity and energy of the album itself and the movement of meaningful, stimulating hip-hop culture; someone with a firm grasp of their heritage in-hand who is effortlessly fresh, confident, and enjoys their own uniqueness in such a way that they attract platinum status. A partner or best friend; someone you can really depend on.
"it's him and I, Aquemini"

Another thing I'm having trouble with is staying upright. I work myself very nearly to a seated position often, but then I'll notice my feet again, and suddenly I just have to be near them. Do you guys have feet? They're amazing!!! Not sure what they're for yet. I've been using the assistance of a Bumbo seat and it really saves the day sometimes. Delicious, too. (Thanks A.D.!)

Mom and Dad are bringing out all the seats this week. I think my bum's still girlishly compact, but they say I'm especially well endowed in the seating department thanks to generous contributions from family and friends.

Check me out in my bouncer, moments before I pooped in it!

(Thanks Ragsdales!)

10. Dear Noble,

Thank you. For your good humour, your generous coos and gummy grin. Your single dimple brings us all into the brisk air of clumsy, blind love. Your singularly fetching half-Caesar hairline drives me to distraction.

Thank you for tying my hands while the world is in crisis. For clutching my hair in exuberant need and frustration. For reminding me with your escalating screams that you could be the next Mister Rodgers. Or 5000% the opposite. Maybe you're just gassy?

Will I just be along for the ride in your life? Will we even ride together? Personally, I insisted on walking alone, but if you go this route I hope you'll choose appropriate foot ware; I've been unequivocally scolded by my chiropractor. If you want to ride with Daddy more than me, I'll also understand. It really comes down to musical preference, I suppose.

You're 2 months and 11 days old, and I thank you. I'm hoisting your 11.5 lbs regularly, and still I thank you. You've grown 2 inches so far and are stretching and kicking your way to a third. 

You're so sturdy your ears don't stay folded to the side of your head anymore. You've started to notice when I cut more than your finger's nail, and may have had your first punishing introduction to Newton's 2nd law of motion against Daddy's desk yesterday. If you were paying any attention. You've noticed your feet and have learned to keep a watchful eye lest someone change your shoes again. 

You've begun to covet the toys of others, and have been awarded screen time with lasting success.

It's your first Thanksgiving, and you're not yet privy to the writings of Howard Zinn or the ghastly birth of this holiday, but in our quest to dignify every day with gratitude you may be asked what you're thankful for at the table later. Just cue me before you spit up.

Love you, 

Mom 

8. Ignoble Lengths

Shortly after Noble's birth, my hair resumed the irksome shedding I was so used to before getting pregnant. Increased levels of estrogen during gestation prevented hair loss, resulting in the thick mane you always hear those waddling beauties raving about. The persistent inconvenience of picking hair off our clothes, out of Bill's beard, out of my food, and out of Noble's armpits really should have been enough to get it cut already. Waffling about whether or not to pursue "the cut" while wrestling with infant fistfuls of hair and steady fall out, I noticed that mania had begun to replace the mane.

Way into fists around here

During labor my hair was my favorite prop, whipping hither and thither during contractions in centrifugal fury, the key force propelling me from one hell to the next.
Seven weeks later, it was just weighing down my curls and eating up precious minutes every day. And washing it? Thanks to baking soda and apple cider vinegar I only have to wash it once every two weeks but when the bill comes, I pay in handfuls. So, enough.  

In a political climate like this, it's the closest thing to moving to Canada. Having trouble digesting your current state of hairs? Pull the faithless elector card and get them to make the cut while they still can! A makeover will hardly soothe the sting of our election, but if you need a pick-me-up to get to work on brightening the future, pick up those scissors and get nasty with it. Consider the perks!
Noble rarely has my hair in her mouth, her diaper, or wrapped around her neck anymore. She doesn't get stabbed in the eye when I'm breastfeeding either, which is a real pip considering the razor sharp split ends I was sporting last week. 

I wish the very best for the next four years, dear readers. I really do. If you're in Austin and want to get teamed up with some allies, check out Austin Justice Coalition for some next steps. 

Much love and safety,
Amber

7. Noble Substitutions

Monday was our first big foray into costuming. Cue the milestone bib:

Thanks to an array of spit-ups, blow outs and inclement weather, we were privileged to wear many costumes. Transforming from "milk monster" to "crochet bunny" to "cowgirl" to "naked and angry" was simplified by our decision to stay home. Fortuitous, since cleaning up that splashy cowgirl patty was a real barn burner.

Tonight we swapped this

for a few hours on the town. For our first night away from our seven week old cooing, pooing bundle of grunts, we chose a quick ballroom dance lesson (should our dance card ever open up again) and a 3D showing of Doctor Strange. An action packed four hours to draw my focus  away from the no doubt harrowing scene playing out at home. My sister has worked with newborns younger than Noble, so I told myself not to sweat the inevitability that she might cry the whole time we were gone. Auntie Jade is one of Noble's favorites, presumably because Jade is the baby craziest of us all, and the closest thing to mommy without all that bothersome nectar leaking everywhere.

The troubles Jade shared with us when we got home were the same ones we've only just learned work arounds for. Not solutions, just distractions. Most of them involve breast milk on tap, or stomping around the house until she's confused enough to forget why she was crying in the first place. When in doubt, feed her, right?

Even I have my limits. Without a small arsenal of nipple shields, which perform a multitude of conveniences, no one would be drinking from these fountains.

 These are not as modern a marvel as I'd expected. Dating back to the sixteenth century when they were crafted from wood and other horrors, they have been my MVP since day 1.

Right up there with this guy