Note to my nephew at 8 months
The note in my phone announcing that “Baby is the size of a pecan!” is already over a year old. Like many babies, you were fixed in our minds as a fruit or a vegetable every month before we met you. Some months you were so sweet (strawberry) and other months you were sour (lemon). All the months before we met you, you were already loved. Tonight during dinnertime, we laugh at your impromptu goatee of yogurt, mashed sweet potatoes, and peas. We laugh even harder when your face contorts into an oncoming temper tantrum, the scream about to escape like steam from a tea kettle (and sounds about the same too). To distract you, your mom nuzzles your feet and makes bopping sounds with her mouth on your belly. You immediately giggle, thunderstorm forgotten. But when you’re done eating and tired of being restrained in your high chair, you’re full immediately. Food and utensils fly. Your entire torso bucks in your chair and your wail is like a tornado siren. “Take cover for flying debri
