Baby, what are you thinking?

Dear baby,

As you approach 10 months old, I think it’s time to discuss communication. I’m trying really hard to be clear with you. It’s only fair that you hurry up and tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.

I realize that some people learn and teach their babies sign language. Are these folks unemployed? I can’t possibly find the time and energy to learn a whole new language for your convenience just because you won’t be chatting for another year.

Anybody can look at you and tell that you’re usually a happy girl. It’s why you’re so popular. That smile of yours can light up a room, and your squeal draws baby-gazers like flies to a teething biscuit.

I can pretty easily discern when you’re hungry, sleepy, bored, pooping or in a cranky mood.

You’re delighted by music. You bop and jig to the beat, dancing better than that Baby Cory kid, except that you can’t quite stand up to do the stanky leg shake.

It’s obvious that you’re fascinated by sensory experiences of all kinds. You like splashing in the tub, chewing on a spoon, petting Buster Mahood (who likes babies way more than our dog Mojo), tasting a new food, looking at architecture on your 497th stroller lap around the neighborhood.

Your listening skills are excellent. If somebody talks while you’re trying to eat, you pop off the boobie and pay attention. So I have to be a little bit of a Shushing Nursing Nazi.

The crawling thing frustrates you, I can tell. Your daddy says you’ve only got one gear at this point: reverse.

As Patrick Swayze said in Dirty Dancing, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” Well, except for baby. I turn around and there you are with nowhere to go, backed into the cabinets, body straining into a plank, pushing backward against the wall.

You growl and complain and grunt and cry because crawling is so hard and you just can’t figure out how to use your knees. I comfort you verbally and restrain myself from coming to scoop you up and cover you with kisses.

I try to just let you figure it out, because that’s what life’s about. I can’t always be rescuing you and fixing your problems for you. I don’t want you calling me at 2 a.m. from your college dorm room and asking what to do about your roommate’s boyfriend’s snoring problem. You’ve gotta develop some coping skills.

Crawling is tough. That’s just the way it is. But once you get the hang of it, I’m sure you’re going to be great, and it’ll be so much fun. It’ll probably be even sweeter because you taught yourself, with no fancypants crawling instructor or older babies to show you how.

I know other babies your age are crawling, even cruising around on furniture, probably holding their own sippy cup and pointing to Uzbekistan on the globe. Forget about them. You can’t compare yourself to other babies all the time. That’s a recipe for crazymaking.

Sometimes you surprise us with your vocalizations, funny faces or actions, and we laugh at you. This encourages you to repeat the behavior, like the fake cough that Grammy taught you. You’re such a ham.

I guess it’s getting better than it was when you were a baby and I couldn’t tell one cry from another. Still, sometimes I just don’t what you’re trying to say. It’s hard to reason with someone who doesn’t hold up her end of the debate.

You did convey your dissatisfaction with me when you pitched your first fit last week. That was one for the books. Except that I’ve had zero time to write in your baby book, and that’s one more thing I feel bad about, thank you very much.

Anyway, about the fit. You remember. I let you be the Shopping Assistant and carry the list, but you couldn’t just hold it and read it, you had to eat it. So when I saw a chunk missing from the Post-It note, I fished the spitball out of your mouth and took the list away.

You freaked out. You gulped in air and screamed. Huge crocodile tears flooded your face. People stared.

Your vigor impressed me. Your daddy says he would have given you the paper back to shut you up and avoid a public meltdown. As family therapist Laura Santomauro says, your daddy and I are going to have to work on meshing our parenting styles.

If I were Perfect Mommy, I’d have had a suitable toy in my pocket to substitute for the list, possibly preempting the fit. “I need this list back, but here, have a silicone spatula to chew!”

I’m not Perfect Mommy at all, but I’m the only Mommy you have, and I’m trying really hard to be good at it.

So if you could just help me out by working on your communication skills, that would be great. Sometimes I feel like Jay, exhausted by Silent Bob’s charades in Kevin Smith’s movies. “Just say it already!”

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
This column originally appeared in the Jackson Hole News&Guide. Don't delay, subscribe today, so Jo keeps a job!