You may have noticed that I haven’t posted in a while. I’m bound and determined to catch up, starting with my post earlier this evening. This one is my excuse for the lapse.
My daughter christened my February-to-May lapse in almost everything “doggie mommy leave ” due to “doggy mommy brain.” It would have been nice to have that grace period when my people babies came along, but such is life. Enzo Garibaldi Fittipaldi, AKA Enzo Spaghetti-O (thanks to my son), AKA Enzo Magnifico (me), AKA Chew-Boca (Hubby), Bitey McGee (Hubby again), Longfellow (Hubby once more), and, at least once a day, “Enzo, STOP!” (all of us) is now six months old.
Over the course of the last three months, we have borne scars from his nipping, collected his baby teeth, religiously picked up the toys he scatters everywhere only to have them re-scattered in a flash (we call it “redecorating”), stashed our shoes in curious places to protect them from his “shopping” expeditions, introduced him to countless neighbors and a select few other doggies, massaged his cheeks when his gums were aching, potty-trained him, and established a basic eat-out-play-sleep routine. He’s grown like a weed, he’s healthy and frisky, he’s loads of fun. We remain happily exhausted.
It’s been a delight to watch him “evolve,” as Hubby puts it. He’s a super friendly fellow. When we’re out walking, he expects everyone he encounters to fuss over him, which they do without fail. Some days it seems as if he has more neighborhood pals than we do. One night he saw a group of kids playing tag across the street, and he all but dragged me there to be cooed over and petted.
Although we still have some rough days, when Enzo’s stored up energy gives new meaning to the phrase “played out,” he’s becoming more cuddly and companionable. He’ll lie contentedly next to me while I’m going about my business and follow both of us from room to room. He listens with surprising focus when Hubby engages him in conversation. He adores Hubby and, like any little kid, makes a beeline for the mudroom when he hears the garage door go up. A clear case of “Daddy’s home!” syndrome. But frankly, I think he’s more of a Mama’s Boy. Ask me if I mind. The answer, on most days, would be “Not one bit.”