It’s amazing to me how many characteristics you’d think would be learned behaviors actually turn out to be hardwired into our genetic code.

Talkativeness, for example.

When I wasn’t quite three, my parents took me on a road trip up the Pacific Coastal Highway. They figured I’d sleep the whole way. It seemed a safe assumption to make, as most kids sleep in cars.

I, however, was not most kids.

Not only did I stay awake the entire drive through California, I talked the whole time, too, earning myself the nickname Chatty Cathy.

My mother also wished I would have a chatterbox child when I grew up. She has amazing power. (I’m terrified about the karmic retribution I’m in for after The Playground Incident.)

Though the Burt Squirt, of course, has never been called Chatty Cathy, he has been dubbed Jabberwocky. He’s nowhere near three, but any time he’s in the car, he’s awake and talking.

For that matter, any time he’s awake, he’s talking.

And as of 4:30 this morning, he doesn’t even have to be awake to be talking.

That would be the Bond coming out in him.

You see, the Burt Squirt comes from a long line of sleep-talkers. My shining moment occurred on a family vacation, when my father, up late reading, heard me say to my brother in the other bed, “Don’t tell Dad!” Dad once freaked my mom out by suddenly sitting up in bed one night and whacking the foot of the bed, saying, “It’s in the sheets!” Mom never was sure of what it was; maybe the same it my brother was talking about when Dad caught him sleep-walking one night and Greg mumbled something unintelligible before slugging Dad on the shoulder and saying, “Psst! Dad, pass it on.”

But it’s Mom who has, fittingly, the mother of all sleep-talking stories. It was Dad’s turn to get a little surprise the night Mom sat up in bed, grabbed his hand, brought it up to her lips, and planted a smacking kiss on it. When he asked her, bemused, what she was doing, Mom replied, “It’s a handshake–a friendly gesture!” and promptly lay back down.

I’d be more surprised if the Burt Squirt didn’t talk in his sleep. Though I thought we’d at least get through the baby monitor years before he followed in the family footsteps. Which was how I witnessed this milestone: Mr. Burt was putting the Burt Squirt back to bed after I nursed him at 4 AM, while I tried, unsuccessfully, to fall back asleep due to the stream of baby babble emitting from the monitor on my bedside table. I was feeling rather sorry for Mr. Burt, thinking he’d be in there a while if the Burt Squirt was that wide awake, when suddenly he was crawling back into bed with me, laughing.

“He was talking in his sleep!” he said, and I realized the baby monitor was silent.

“Aw, he said dada in his sleep while you were patting him,” I said, thinking of how my brother and I always had that uncanny ability to sleep-talk about or to my dad when he was awake to hear it.

The Burt Squirt’s sentience would have been more impressive had I not earlier that day witnessed him look directly at the cat and shriek, “Dada!”

In fact, dada seems to be the Burt Squirt’s word of choice for describing anything that makes him happy, as you can see in this video in which he is clearly not asleep.

…or is he?

Those parents.

You know the ones I mean: the parents who use their children to get free stuff for themselves. And while Mr. Burt and I will stoop to almost any level to get a good deal, we prefer to leave the Burt Squirt out of it.

So we didn’t take him trick-or-treating. To do so would have made us some of those parents. I mean, it would have been pretty darn obvious from the distinct lack of teeth in the Burt Squirt’s gummy smile that we were only collecting candy for ourselves.

(Or would it have been? One of our neighborhood Wells Fargo tellers keeps offering him lollipops. So far, I have resisted the urge to accept a lolly to pop myself…)

It’s a short and slippery slope from a Kit-Kat to Kate Gosselin.

As you know, we got the Burt Squirt a costume, so we did take him to a few doors. Which still might have been a teensy bit like something those parents would do, but we convinced ourselves our neighbors would be upset with us if we didn‘t give them an opportunity to see the Burt Squirt dressed up like a dragon. Also, we wanted to do a bit of reverse trick-or-treating and give away some Halloween cupcakes leftover from a dinner party the night before. (This was less altruistic than to prevent Mr. Burt and myself–mostly myself–demonstrating a colossal lack of self-control and eating a dozen cupcakes. Which we totally would have done if we’d had a dozen cupcakes in the house.)

Alas, the plan went a bit bust. Our next-door neighbors the Nguyens were home but, judging from the colander of candy perched on an old upturned soy sauce bucket on the porch, didn’t want to be disturbed. Our across-the-alley neighbor and sometimes babysitter Patty opened her door and happily snapped pictures (and took a few cupcakes) for her husband and two teenage daughters, all Burt Squirt fans who were out.

And two doors down, Jenn and Joe’s house stood dark and empty on Halloween night.

Or so we thought.

As Jenn later told me, she wasn’t home, but Joe was. In fact, Joe was having a party. Just not a Halloween party. And as he didn’t have any candy on hand, he had to send a spy to the front door peephole to know whether the doorbell was being rung by guys arriving for poker night or kids in costumes. (He needs to take a lesson from our friend Damon, who was caught sans candy last Halloween but scrounged up some Tic Tacs for his trick-or-treaters.)

When the Burt family rang the doorbell, Joe asked his spy who was at the door. The reply?

“A tiny woman holding a lizard!”

So, I didn’t get any candy this Halloween (we won’t talk about the three giant bags that I bought and were mostly leftover after our three trick-or-treaters), but I did get a Native American name: Tiny Woman Who Holds Lizards.

I am, after all 1/32 Cherokee. Which means my little lizard is 1/64 Cherokee.

Not that I would ever exploit that. I’m not one of those parents.

The first clothing Mr. Burt and I purchased for the Burt Squirt when we found out we were having a boy was not a sweet, tiny newborn outfit  in which to bring him home from the hospital. It was far less practical than that, and in a size much bigger than newborn.

Our unborn boy already had a dragon costume for his first Halloween.

We knew our Burt Squirt would be adorable in his dragon costume, but at the same time we couldn’t imagine that the baby, still only half-term inside me, could ever have long enough arms and legs to fill the sleeves and pant legs. After he was born and, for the first few months, consistently measured in the 25th percentile for length, it seemed even less likely he’d grow into his dragon suit in time for Halloween.

But on Halloween, which also happened to be the eve of the Burt Squirt’s eight month-birthday, Mr. Burt and I dressed him in the costume as we’d anticipated doing for so long.

And we found it fit, perfectly.

Must be all that baby food he’s been eating almost ever since I posted about him not eating it on his seven month birthday. It took going against the pediatrician’s advice and introducing fruits before vegetables, but going by the way the Burt Squirt scarfed down an entire jar of squash in about two minutes flat the other night, there wasn’t any harm in our method. Now he eats at least jar of fruit and a jar of vegetables a day, divided over breakfast and dinner, and we’re working on a jar of fruit or vegetables, depending on his intestinal needs, for lunch. Breastfeeding is still going strong; he nurses about five times a day, which is great, and usually refuses a bottle, which is not so great. I’d really like to get back to choir, so we’ve got to figure out a solution to get him to eat when I’m not around for that bedtime feeding.

The one time he’s not eating anymore is in the middle of the night. He’d dropped the nighttime feed at around two months, but then at five months had a growth spurt and started teething and was waking to nurse in the middle of the night consistently until about three weeks ago. As of last week he continued waking with gas, but then one night he rolled onto his side, which he’d never done before, and slept through the night, with repeat performances the next three nights as he discovered that the side and tummy are comfier than the back–and better for working through those pesky nighttime toots.

And I’m betting that now he doesn’t mind being on his tummy, crawling really will happen any day now. If he doesn’t take off walking first. He can stand on his own for a good ten seconds now; yesterday he hit twenty, in his dragon costume, but I think that was because the tail gave him a little extra balance. He hasn’t pulled up on any stationary objects yet, though he tries, because all our furniture seems to be a little too tall for him. I thought for a minute he was going to pull up on the refrigerator today while he was playing in the kitchen while I fixed myself some lunch, but then I realized he was only hugging it. And kissing it. (Maybe all that affection will make my crisper drawer stop freezing my produce.)

There’s a lot of that going around.

I was on my way out of Walmart last week, pushing the buggy with sunglasses in hand, ready for the moment I stepped out into the glaring sunlight. The Burt Squirt, of course, made a grab for my shades. Not wanting to spoil his fun by snatching them away, but also unwilling to risk having my favorite sunglasses broken by the curious and ungentle exploring hands of my seven month-old, I popped them on his face instead. I didn’t have to feign laughter at the round-eyed expression of bewilderment visible through the big, tinted lenses perched on his chubby cheeks. He looked like a baby clown, and I told him so as I pushed him toward the exit.

Cute as he was wearing Mommy’s oversized sunglasses, however, my little boy was not the only person who captivated my attention in that moment. We were, after all, in Walmart. But this was not one of my typical encounters with Walmart clientele.

The husband and wife could barely walk, they were so old and frail, and they were holding hands. I got the feeling they weren’t holding hands because they needed to, but because they wanted to. All those years ago when they discovered they liked each other, then fell in love, they’d held hands; why wouldn’t they continue to do so after a lifetime together had given them reason to love and like each other even more?

Their smiles initially may have been expressions of happiness at being together, defying, for one more day, the physical limitations of age to perform such necessary tasks as grocery shopping, but I soon realized they were grinning at the Burt Squirt and me as we continued to giggle over the sunglasses. I stopped pushing the buggy as the lady released her husband’s hand and haltingly approached us.

“Look at that chubby little foot!”  She caught said chubby little foot in her gnarled hands and squeezed it, cooing and crooning to the Burt Squirt, and beaming up at me. “Oh, congratulations! Congratulations!”

“Congratulations!” her husband echoed, flashing a smile as gummy as the Burt Squirt’s, giving one of the chubby baby cheeks a pinch.

I thanked them, wondering how many of their own children, grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren they were thinking of with so much love in their eyes as they played with my baby boy.

“You look so happy,” the lady said with a sigh. “You both look so happy.” Then she clasped hands with her husband again and continued on into Walmart.

I wish I’d thought to tell her that she looked happy, too, and that I hope someday a young mother thinks the same thing about Mr. Burt and me when it’s all we can do to totter into Walmart, hand-in-hand, and squeeze chubby babies who remind us of the Burt Squirt.

If I were a good mommy blogger, the first of every month would bring an update about the Burt Squirt’s growth and development. Alas, I am not a good mommy blogger; you will find no such posts prior to this, the Burt Squirt’s seven-month birthday. Probably I shouldn’t admit that my sudden motivation to blog is prompted by the fact that the alternative for this time before the Burt Squirt awakes is to clean the bathroom. That choice would make a blogger of anyone.

From what I’ve seen in the mommy blogging world, these kinds of posts typically start out with stats. This reminds me of something I read once about infancy being the only time when it’s considered polite to ask how much a person weighs or remark on how much hair he has. I’m not sure if anyone ever thought to ask the babies if they think it’s polite, but for the sake of perceived good manners, I’ll go with it.

At seven months old, the Burt Squirt weighs upwards of 20 pounds and is 27ish inches long. Forgive my imprecision, but he doesn’t have a checkup this month and our scale needs new batteries. I assume he’s heavier and longer than he was at six months, as he’s filling out his 6-9 month PJs nicely. Of course, it’s highly possible I shrank them in the dryer…I prefer growth spurt, especially considering how many times I nursed the kid yesterday.

Yes, at seven months old, the Burt Squirt is still nursing pretty much exclusively and shows no signs of giving up any of his six or seven daily feedings. Which isn’t great for the amount of sleep I’m getting, but I’m just glad he hasn’t cut any teeth yet–though Niagara Falls flowing forth from his mouth and constant chewing everything lead me to believe they’re on their way. We’ve spent the past month introducing baby food, but, “Liam, Mashed Sweet Potatoes; Mashed Sweet Potatoes, Liam,” is about the extent of our progress. There were two days in there where he voluntarily opened his mouth and ate apples, but then it was time to move on to other things and there hasn’t been a repeat performance, despite my singing Bananaphone and Peaches in the attempt to make him laugh and open his mouth. He grins–with his lips pressed firmly together. The Burt Squirt is nobody’s fool.

He’s actually sparing with his laughter in general, which obviously means he has a has a highly cultivated and discerning sense of humor, cracking up only at such comic gems as “poopies” said in a silly voice.

Just because the Burt Squirt doesn’t laugh a lot doesn’t mean he’s not a happy baby. Happy is his default setting, and he smiles and jabbers “dada” and “baba” all day to express it. Especially if he’s outside, or on the go. This is not a child who likes to sit around the house all day–a surprising trait in the offspring of two troglodytes. Lucky for him, he’ll be celebrating his seven month birthday with lunch at Babe‘s and coffee at Mozart Bakery.

Less surprising is his clear desire for independence. If the Burt Squirt’s not happy, it’s generally because he’s not where he wants to be and can’t get there on his own. He’d like nothing better than for me to hold his hands and help him walk around the house all day long. He gets less frustrated now that he’s finally learned to roll from back to front–a motor skill his pediatrician assured us is often delayed in kids with more weight to lug around. Though I think the delay was due less to physical inability as lack of interest in doing so, because one day he just suddenly did it, multiple times in a row, with great ease, and it was obvious he’d been holding out on us. There was a look on his face of, “Oh, I can get across a room if I do that. Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

He’ll be asking himself the same question when he figures out how to crawl, which is sure to happen any day now. He’s quite adept at lunging from a sitting position onto his hands and knees. What he needs is a good set of guns like I have–from carrying the 20 pound Burt Squirt around.

As we’ve come full-circle back to weight, it seems this Burt Squirt update has come to a close. It’s cliché, but I can hardly believe that more than half of his first year is already over and gone. How could seven months have slipped past since I first nuzzled his cheek in the operating room? And how could he be so big when a year ago today he was just a little 17 week-old bump in my tummy?

That time flies like it does makes me glad for those few hours each day when I don’t get any housework done because I”m stuck in my nursing chair snuggling with my little squirt who refuses to nap anywhere but in my lap.

Because that’s the only time I get to be a mommy blogger.