In my family we have a favorite story about my brother, then age twoish, getting caught by my friend Crystal eating her cat’s food. Actually, she didn’t catch him eating; she caught him kneeling next to the cat’s food dish spitting something out onto the floor. Which, of course, she could only deduce to be cat food.

When Crystal inquired about it, Greg scrunched up his nose in an expression of distaste and replied, “That cereal was yucky.”

Since the Burt Squirt became mobile, various family members have laughingly warned me to keep our cat’s food dish out of his reach. Usually when he’s crawling or toddling about I do, but today the Burt Squirt turned on the stealth and managed to try the yucky cereal on the sly.

Only he didn’t seem to think it was very yucky.

Of course it happened because I was distracted–ironically, with cooking the Burt Squirt’s dinner. Obviously I wasn’t serving dinner quickly enough, because when I turned around, there was the Burt Squirt, sitting in the kitchen with his legs splayed out, Dorrie’s food dish between them. One pudgy hand hand fisted as many dry chicken pellets as the stubby fingers could close around; the other waved winsomely at me.

His little mouth, still with only the four front teeth in it, was chewing.

And it would have continued to do so, judging from the way his nose was not scrunched up in an expression of distaste, had I not gone fishing for one, two, and a half pieces of cat food. There might have been more–probably there was at least another half a piece–but the Burt Squirt wriggled away before I could plumb the depths of his mouth for the rest of his quarry. Goodness only knows how much he consumed before I saw him doing it.

I’m not worried, especially since just the other day I saw a TV ad for an expensive brand of cat food that slagged off all the commercial brands for being made mainly of corn. If corn’s good enough for my cat, it’s good enough for my kid! That might be a backwards philosophy, but I’ll keep it in mind in the dog days of summer when he starts catching and eating the baby geckos that find their way into the house.

As is customary on the first birthday, we let the Burt Squirt wreak havoc on a cupcake, mostly so we could take pictures of him with icing all over his face. He’s normally such a photogenically accommodating child, but he disappointed us by not getting so much as a smudge anywhere but on his hands. And he didn’t even taste his cupcake, which is really odd these days as he’s only too eager to stuff his face with whatever food you put on his high chair tray.

That’s right, the Burt Squirt is feeding himself–which means all that worrying I was doing about how I’d ever get him eating a variety of textured stage three baby foods was for nothing (as all worrying tends to be).

About two weeks ago he flat refused to eat his favorite puréed bananas, squash, and sweet potatoes and began gobbling up table food like he was afraid Mr. Burt and I were going to send our leftovers to starving kids in Africa. He’s not yet eating what we have at meals, but he has a fairly extensive menu of his own: bananas, whole grain toast, whole grain blueberry waffles, cheese, chicken, black beans, corn, peas, kidney beans, sweet potatoes, Annie’s Bunny Pasta with Yummy Cheese, whole wheat crackers, strawberries, brown rice, and whole wheat tortillas.

And talking of whole things, despite now having four teeth with which to chew, pretty much all of the Burt Squirt’s food comes out looking exactly like it did when it went in. Potty training is looking really good right now. Except that the Burt Squirt has never put up a fuss about having a dirty diaper, so that would probably be an exercise in poo-tility.

On the subject of fits, the Burt Squirt doesn’t exactly pitch temper tantrums (much), but he does know how to make himself pretty clear about what he wants. When he wants to go outside, he toddles over to the french door to the patio and pounds on it till you either take him out in the back yard or put him in his stroller to go to the park. If he wants you to read to him, he’ll go get one of his books and throw it at you. (Clearly I need to teach him that this is not the meaning of that idiom.) And if you don’t drop what you’re doing and get on the floor to read it to him immediately, he’ll follow you around with the book, flinging it at your feet, until you do. At some point this behavior will have to stop, but right now the novelty of it makes it endearing. (And as an English lit major, I can hardly discourage my child’s love of reading; after all, I carry around an e-book reader and an iPod in the belief that reading can and should take place at any given moment.)

Anyway, I’m sure speech will replace this cavemannish style of communication soon enough, as his jabbering now consists of just about every sound in the English language (plus some other interesting ones that make me wonder if he isn’t speaking Swahili). Though he has been known to sit with other babies and simply shriek back and forth at them, as was the case when his twin girlfriends Ava and Zoe were here for his birthday party.

Now that I’ve come full-circle back to the subject of the Burt Squirt’s birthday, I’ll make the obligatory remark about how hard it is to believe that my baby boy is a year old already, that it seems like not very long ago that I held him for the first time in the hospital. (Except that it seems like a very long time ago that I got a good night’s sleep!)

As I thought about this post, the lyrics to Seasons of Love from RENT kept going through my head: “How do you measure a year in the life?” With babies, it’s easy to fall into the habit of measuring growth in inches (somewhere around 10 since birth) and pounds (between 14.5 and 15 gained). Obviously those measurements aren’t the ones that matter (except to the Burt Squirt’s pediatrician), or I’d have more exact numbers. And contrary to what the baby books would lead us to believe, it’s not even the milestones that measure the first year (even though they do provide fodder for the mommy bloggers).

It’s the love–

–which, though not quantifiable, has undoubtedly grown.

More often than not these days, the Burt Squirt’s feet look like this, in need of a little TLC at bath time. Because, at eleven months old–that’s right, eleven months, which means invitations have been sent for the first birthday party–the Burt Squirt’s primary mode of locomotion is walking.

Actually, that’s not quite true. About the little dirty feet, not the walking. It’s wintertime, so most days, the Burt Squirt wears socks, the removal of which reveals lint, not dirt. Of course, soggy lint stuck between sweaty little toes isn’t exactly pleasant, but parenting is all about perspective: toe jam is less gross than poopy diapers. But wintertime in Texas means that in between freak cold snaps and snow storms, we get the occasional day of 80 degrees, which means barefoot walks in the grass at the Dallas Arboretum–yes, even for babies.

The Burt Squirt took his first steps at nine months, while on Skype with Mimi and Papa in Minnesota, and now is toddling quite proficiently, even if his swaying gait with his arms up for balance is a bit reminiscent of a baboon. A month ago we had to coax him to walk, but now he’d rather walk than crawl, and pretty much only crawls if he’s fallen down in the middle of a room without a piece of furniture or person on which to pull up. Because the boy put the foot in front of…the other foot and didn’t bother to learn how to stand himself up before he took of walking.

He has, however, figured out that banana puffs are a yummy snack, as well as a source of future blackmail great amusement for Mom and Dad, though we first endured a few false starts that resulted in the Burt Squirt being quite possibly the only baby ever to gag on–and, consequently, throw up–a food that’s designed to dissolve almost instantly in his mouth. I’m beginning to fear he’s inherited the hair-trigger gag reflex that makes it impossible for his mother to swallow pills, as all of the stage three baby foods that involve chunks and/or thick textures come right back up again. Technically we’re following the pediatrician’s advice to be eating stage three baby foods by now; the Burt Squirt gobbles up the stage three jars of apples, pears, bananas, strawberry bananas, squash, and sweet potatoes–in addition to stage two everything else.

The fact that he’s only got 2.5 teeth–we just felt his top left tooth cut through two days ago–probably plays a big role in the food issues, so I’m antsy for more to come in–unless they look like the banana puff teeth, in which case he can just go on slurping down purées for the rest of his life. (Come to think of it, this would save us a lot of money in the long term, in both the dentistry and tooth fairy departments.) At least I’d never be deprived of that gummy smile beaming up at me…

The Burt Squirt is still, very much, a mama’s boy. He can have all the toys he could want all around him, but he’ll abandon playing with them to be wherever I am. (If only he realized that the way to a mother’s heart is not to give her a heart attack by climbing two flights of stairs when she runs upstairs for all of thirty seconds to check the clothes in the dryer–that’ll teach me not to put up the baby gate.) Or maybe it’s just that the contents of the kitchen cupboards really are more interesting than all the baby stuff that’s placed so easily within his reach. I don’t claim to be gifted at math, but I think even the finest mathematical mind (especially when afflicted with Mommy Brain) would be hard-pressed to keep count of how many times a day I put the tupperware back in its cupboard. (For an added bonus, that once perpetually messy cupboard is now constantly organized; who needs a Smart Spin?) He’s also obsessed with the dishwasher, which, coupled with his continued love affair with the vacuum (though in all fairness, who wouldn’t love a Dyson?) gives me great hope that in a few years time, the Burt Squirt will willingly take over all housework so Mommy can get back to writing books.

But in the meantime, Mommy will happily settle for reading books–the Burt Squirt’s current favorite being B is for Bear (though I’m managing to find the time for books that don’t rhyme or have fuzzy teddy bear ears to pet). That bit of baby-lit was a gift from Uncle Greg and Aunt-to-Be Meaghan, who have relieved us of the responsibility of indoctrinating the Burt Squirt to grow up and become a Baylor Bear. Though they may have their work cut out for them, as Uncle Peter and Auntie Ashley seem to be determined that the Burt Squirt will be the youngest-ever player drafted to the Minnesota Vikings (who might have made it to the Super Bowl if Brett Favre had had the Burt Squirt to throw to). And the Burt Squirt does already like to play ball–even if his version looks more like a puppy playing fetch (complete with panting and his tongue sticking out…though that could also describe Michael Jordan). He also likes music, particularly playing Daddy’s guitar, which is kept on a stand in the office where he can toddle right up to it and strum away (usually with his fingers, but occasionally with tupperware bowls or toy firemen), or the piano, which is a little less accessible but makes a lot of great noise. Or maybe he’s going to be the next Gunther Gebel-Williams, as seems likely by the way he laughs in the face of Dorrie hissing at him, and how he got the hang of chasing her around playing with her with a cat toy after I showed him how.

It’s so much fun to see The Burt Squirt’s interests coming out a little more with every passing day, and Mr. Burt and I are excited to see where his talents and passions lie in years to come.

And speaking of years, where–No, I won’t finish that thought. I may have Mommy Brain, but I refuse to be reduced to a total Mommy Cliché. Instead I’ll just say I’d better get cracking planning the party to celebrate the first year!

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.

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.