This here is my pride and joy.
This is Connor Adam.
The chunkiest, drooliest, funniest, most handsome nephew a girl could ever ask for.
Me and Connor here are super tight.
He’s the mac to my cheese, the milk to my cereal, the waffle to my house, the twinkle in my eye.
I love this boy more than I thought was possible to love someone.
Before little man came into this world almost 10 freaking months ago, holy cow time flies when you’re having fun, I thought I knew love. I love my dad, I love my brother and sister, I love my cousins, and aunt and uncles, I love my grandma, I love my cats, I love my friends, I really love Waffle House and any breakfast food.
But this little guy, he puts them all to shame.
Not to say I love those listed above any less, because I still love them a crap ton x 6 billion. But the way my heart lights up when I walk into a room and this little guy is trying his best to make since of the world, there is no explanation.
I love every single thing about him. Every roll on him where normal humans don’t have rolls, those big blue eyes, the way he does quick explosions of crawls then has to take a break. The look he gets on his face when you fan him, and the giggles he makes when you push the button on your umbrella to make it extend. I couldn’t have imagined love like this being possible before I met my little hunk a chunk.
I plan on being the coolest aunt in the world, going on field trips, going to games, having fun dates, helping him woo all the girls in his kindergarten class. I mean, I plan on doing the dang thing.
And with all these high expectations comes a reality of him being a 10 month old baby. He poops on himself, he makes messes that I have to clean up, he has to get what he wants when he wants, and if that doesn’t happen….
Cue the screaming.
The other night while my brother and sister went to a gender reveal party of a friends, I was given the pleasure of baby sitting my little ball of fat. I had no problem with it at all. Because me and him we tight. I had gotten off of work like 3 hours early because a lovely coworker picked up my night shift, I got the best Asain food in Knoxville for dinner, in an hour I was gonna get him ready for bed feed him and put him down, just in time for the Western Conference Finals game 6 between the Spurs and OKC tip off at 8:30.
So in other words, I was feeling pretty good.
We were doing great, he was throwing around a basketball (basically playing fetch with himself). And then it happened….
He hit himself in the head with the ball and started crying. While usually this would be an easy problem to fix, he had exhausted himself with fetch, and had only had two 30 minute naps earlier that day. So we had come to the days end. I ended up being able to get him to calm down a little by letting him crawl all the way to the kitchen while I made his bottle (and forgot the freaking rice cereal stuff). While that was heating I decided to change him and get him ready for bed. SO… upstairs we went…Crying big crocodile tears the whole way. When we get to his nursery, the fight begins. I have to wrestle him practically to get his clothes off. He had of course pooped in his diaper, and this boy when I say chunky he has been wearing cloths made for kids 3 months older than him almost since month one. So getting his slightly too small onesie on made for a whole other battle. When finally we resolved that I would win this one. I came out victorious to a 10 month old, please hold the applause. I realized however, though I won the battle the war was not yet over.
We went back down stairs and got the heated bottle, went back upstairs to the nursery where I took my post in the glider, Connor in my lap, bottle in hand, pacifier and burp cloth on standby ready for use. And let me tell you the opponent, still was not a happy camper. Wailing would be the word I would use, no matter what I tried. But I went through with protocol anyways. Inserted the bottle and there was silence.
Oh the magic of a silenced baby.
However, I was told to burp every 3 ounces….
As soon as I took that bottle away, you would have thought the world had exploded. I would put a pacifier in his mouth he would keep it for about 10 seconds before he spit it out and would scream again. And I’m just thinking, “Burp dang it! Then you can have the freaking bottle!” But alas he didn’t and I was frustrated, so I just gave him the bottle back.
The next three ounces were downed super quick. So again we try to burp him… He is a very consistent I have to give him that, he would not stop crying and burp. Until I remembered the secret to Connor, I let him hold the burp cloth, put the pacifier in his mouth and boom….silence. It was then, only when he got exactly what he wanted, that he stopped. Finally I got a burp out of him while explaining to him that he was a brat and super frustrating, like anyone would do to a 10 month old baby. Then while drinking the remaining 3 ounces of baby formula, the opponent finally fell in defeat (fell asleep). I managed to get a final burp out of him while asleep before putting him in his crib, turning on a sound machine and tip toeing my way down stairs to watch the game.
I’m not a fan of when people tell stories like this and then convert it to a message that God said. Because I feel like people annoyingly twist things both good and bad to make a lesson out of them. However, as I walked down stairs to watch the game I realized that there was still a huge mess of toys and a kitchen to be cleaned.
And yet again God smacked me and laughed in my face. For I realized, I’m just as bad as Connor.
I am completely happy and fine with what is going on in my life until I barely hit myself in the head with it. Then it’s like the world has ended and my life will go on no more. And then I go on fussing about it maybe not even to God, but maybe I complain to friends about whatever it is, or maybe I’m inwardly pitying myself for whatever is wrong. But the point is I make a HUGE deal out of a small issue. I barely bumped my head.
And then while I’m complaining, not that I am noticing, God is throwing things my way trying to comfort me. He cleans up the poop of my life and trys to put me into some metaphorical jammies to get me ready for the better that is coming (bottle and sleep). But I fight the whole way. Even when he is literally feeding me what I need to feel better, if he stops for one second I complain again and again until he just gives me exactly what I want. Let me repeat. Me exactly what I want. The only difference is God doesn’t tell me I’m a brat when I do this (which I deserve much more than a 10 month old), and he just holds me till I am out, and completely happy. Loving me the entire way. Loving me in a way that is immeasurable, indescribable. Loving me like I never knew anyone could love.
And then after that, he goes back and cleans up all the mess I’ve made before he sits down to enjoy the first actual good game of the Western Conference series.
I mean, if that doesn’t make him the godly equivalent of the coolest aunt. I don’t know what does.
So basic message, God is always only trying to help you. Even if “changing you into your jammies” seems like torture, I bet if you let him do it, you’ll get a bottle and to go to sleep real soon after.
