8 Months: Noble's Mom (Dear Noble,)

Hey Squirt, Mom here. Composter, shitty vegan, karaoke fiend and first-time parent. Recently separated from my beloved part time clerkdom at our neighborhood library, estranged from the theatre and food blogging, I've been set loose in the stay-at-home mom-o-sphere to care for you full time. Since today is Mother's Day, I thought I might tell you a little about myself that so far may have been lost in translation.

It was your dad's idea to have a baby. I loved being pregnant, but dreaded your birth. Prone to bouts of doom, I was apprehensive about how much grit I could really muster when it came time to eject you.  I couldn't imagine what it would be like to meet you or hold your immaculate little shape. You will have noticed that your dad and I like to be comfortable at home, and as accomplished, body positive nudists we will likely let you run around naked long after it is socially acceptable. We just think you have a really hot bod.

I'm in a really fine marriage with someone who really gets it. I can recycle lame jokes and voices and movie quotes, rarely shower and vacuum day or night with impunity.
I'm a biter, but have held back enough to keep you alive. You find this amusing, and humble me with your laughter. With any luck we'll soon be able to share a few choice volumes of vampire fiction. Right after Harry Potter. But a little before Outlander.

I cut my hair when I'm agitated, your father's when he asks and will trim you up if and when you're ready. I avoid confrontation and I drive too wild, but have made adjustments since you joined the band. I am a(n) hyper vigilant perfectionist, but have been flexing my cool-it by letting you eat off the floor (at home) and inviting your dad to use the stove. My favorite job titles have been camp counselor, omelet chef, pizza delivery gal and circulation clerk. My oldest and best friends are from grade school, and my newest is YOU.
When I get angry, I chew my rage into a hard wad and stuff it into a compartment in one of my molars, never to be cracked lest I have to defend my tribe. Unfortunately, this means I'm busy chewing while I could be defusing tension, and it may be several hours before I'm ready to talk. During these times, please give your dad several hugs. I could probably use one too.
I take an elaborate cocktail of antihistamines for my dermatographia, a rare skin condition that turns your nails into my personal hell when you scratch through your teething pain, or - and please stop this immediately - bite the breast that feeds you. I am focused on tolerance, but have several glaring blind spots, and will likely still be taking time outs to breathe through my missteps when I'm too old to walk.

Music and fireworks are the only things that really keep me invested. Fleet Foxes will likely still be blasting through the halls when you're reading this, so if they're on right now I really hope you're not sick of them. FF and their sublime, paralyzing counter-melodies are the modern cornerstone of chamber folk, and do for me what CSNY did for your grandparents. I am so excited and panicked about the magnitude of music I have to share with you, I feel restless to get started. We've been loving Woody Guthrie's Songs To Grow On For Mother And Child, and are trying to push Roy Orbison and some early R&B at the moment. We're considering home schooling, but I know if the curriculum were left up to me, you'd never learn how to multiply fractions. Or any chemistry. Truly, I tap out halfway through Algebra 2. How do you feel about the steel drum?

I didn't wear a pair of pants that fit until I was 30, colored my hair at 11, and briefly thought I'd be able to fly on the trapeze. I prefer a period piece whenever possible, a tree museum to a theme park, and getting a tooth pulled to watching a live play. I had my first lead role at the tender age of 9 and my first show choir solo at 11, but clam up in group conversations. I'm a listener, a planner, a postponer, and a sour old crone about pop culture. I have medieval worries about a second child, owning a pet and leaving the house without a destination.

I lost my dad to cancer at 16, while I was closing Bye Bye Birdie and struggling to make friends at a new school. I have a half brother from my dad's first marriage who's 20 years older than me, and a sister - Auntie Jade! - who came along when I was 8 and already so covetous of my me time that I was late in appreciating her. She's 26 now, adores you, and brings me so much joy that I can't imagine not at least trying to round up a sibling for you pretty soon.
That's about it, Babe. I think you're so wonderful I started a blog about you and how nice it is being your mom, and how delirious I feel when you smile. You'll find my memory is pretty terrible, but remember this, you tiny darling: I am now, and will always be, privileged and grateful to have shared my life with you.
Only the most preposterous love and affection,
Mom