your 8th month out of my uterus.

Benjamin Ian Bartlett,

You are 8 months old today, buddy! Happy birthday!!! While you are sleeping away, I thought I’d take the time to post something on your blog because certain someones have been bugging me about not posting lately. Well, certain someones, I’m tired. And I feel dumb because I did poorly on my interview on Thursday. And my house smells like mildew. And yesterday I lost a chapter of the bestselling book that I’m working on because I’m stupid.

Today we are going to look at a house to rent. Yes, it’s little too expensive. But it is our dream home. It is white with blue shutters. It has a fenced in backyard. It has a washer and dryer. And, the most important qualification for being our dream home: it has a front porch. Oh, and we won’t share any walls or floors or ceilings with anyone ever again. The people below us make it incredibly clear that they do not enjoy Ben jumping in his Exersaucer, or screaming or rolling around. They apparently have supersonic hearing and can detect the slightest motion in our apartment. While it is my feeling that they should purchase a cd featuring ocean waves or waterfalls or forest noises to counter their incredible hearing abilities, they don’t seem to agree. They are the older type of renters, the ones who have been there for many years, the ones who think because they have lived there for so long, they own the whole building and make the rules. Ben’s going to start making a hell of a lot more noise in the coming months, and we don’t want to feel uncomfortable, so we need to find a house to live in, one with a yard that he can run around in, and a porch on which Ryan and I can drink beer...er...ice tea.

Unfortunately, there is competition to rent our dream home, and we have to pile in the house with a bunch of other people who mistakenly believe that this house is their dream home, and we all have to apply for it together. Now, although Ryan and I have good jobs and good rental history, living in New York kind of kicked our asses, so we don’t have what one might call “good credit.” So our only hope is to give you a bath, Ben, put some nice-smelling lotion on you, dress you in your best outfit, iron our clothes and brush our hair, and try to charm the pants off of our future landlords. Hopefully you will cooperate by exhibiting your Walter Mathau face, that irresistible expression that will win over their hearts. It is more likely, however, that you will screech in their faces, possibly even throw up on their carpet.

You are making progress Ben, but I am worried that you aren’t crawling yet, or even lifting your giant belly off the floor. It may be because you are an enormous baby–you are 8 months old but wear 18-month-old clothes, but I’m scared you might be behind. You can wiggle and scoot and roll, but you don’t show much interest in it. I’m thinking it might be because you have everything you could ever want handed to you by your hovering, adoring parents, so each day, I put you on the floor and sit a little ways away from you and let you roll around and reach for things that you might want. In this way, hopefully, you will learn to go after what you want. Now help us get that house, baby. You’re our only hope.