If I ran the zoo

So my tiny, adorable, snuggly little baby is almost one year old.

And he is still adorable, but he is less snuggly and more, well, you guys, I’m basically living with a zoo animal.

It’s just the truth.

I say this for the following reasons. Theo is always into something (for instance, one of his favorite activities is putting a bucket over his head and then squealing wildly), he has no sense of fear (which I most recently noticed as he tried to catapult backwards off of the couch, with a smile on his face), and he prefers that his breakfast is tossed onto his high chair tray in the form of clementine wedges and banana slices.

His latest trick (aside from refusing to abide by my walking timeline of doing it by Saturday) involves waking up for two hours in the middle of the night and attempting to get me or JW to play with him.

This, chickens, is even worse than when he woke up as a newborn, because at least then I knew he had an actual need, and so could pull myself out of bed to nurse him. He was hungry, after all.

Now he’s just out of control.

We don’t play at 2am.

As much as I have made it my parenting pledge to not negotiate with tiny terrorists, I find myself laying still and letting him climb on top of me and pull my hair, thinking that maybe he will get bored and fall asleep.

You can guess what my success rate has been there.

In any case, as we glide into the weekend, the idea is to take a hard line with this little monkey and gain back some sleep (and sanity).

Wish us luck, chickadees. We’re softer than we think at this.


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