No, I'm not referring to Lady Gaga's strange term of endearment for her fans, which is a new level of weird for pop culture. I'm talking about the little guy down the hall who's currently napping with his behind up in the air.
Before Sam was born, people gave us sweet onesies that said "I love Mommy" and "Baby Boys are the Best" and other such nice things. But, in the midst of that sentimentality, there was also the baby t-shirt with the dinosaur on the front and the words "Mommy's Little Monster." Something about that phrase offended my motherly sensibilities. I even took some of those "monster" outfits back, because my new baby wasn't going to be a "little monster" and his poop was going to smell like baby powder and fresh flowers. Right?
I have since woken up from that dream and been ushered into the world of stinky diapers. Sam now wears his dinosaur t-shirt, proudly proclaiming that he is, indeed, a little monster.
Matt usually goes to get Sam every morning and brings him to me around 7:30am. Usually this routine includes my opening my eyes to find Sam's four-toothed grin an inch and a half from my face. It's a sweet moment. And then, Sam gets a fistful of my hair and pulls my face toward his open mouth so that he can bite the heck out of my cheekbone. It's funny. But, it hurts.
This morning I realized that Sam has started to do a baby version of a growl and at the same time, he crawls around looking for something to sink his teeth into. The computer cord, the chair leg, my collar bone. Nothing is safe from those four, razor-sharp teeth.
I'm constantly amazed by the strength of this little guy. Every time I pull him close for a "hug", I end up half-laughing, half-crying as I struggle to extricate my hair from his little cheerio-scented fingers. And then he does his baby growl, with a toothy, drooling grin, and moves in for the bite. Pretty soon I'm going to be covered in mini-toothmarks that might be hard to explain at parties.
And yet, this little monster stage is pretty incredible. Matt and I laugh all the time at the antics of this 18 pound boy wonder. In the middle of stressful budget conversations and occasional tiffs, we find ourselves thankfully distracted by Sam stretching both arms straight up in the air and letting out a loud "yawp." It's hilarious. I promise. If you were here, you'd think so, too.
I can't get enough of this little guy. And I can't imagine my life without him. I'm happy to have my own personal Little Monster who hides cheerios in his diaper and has seriously awesome bed hair.
It's enough to make me want a second one. I think.