Cael and I went to Freddy's today, and before we could make it through the front door, we were accosted. Usually, it's the girl scouts (damn them and their cookies!) but today it was a guy from the Statesman Journal. He shoved a newspaper in my face and asked if I would like a free copy.

I said yes.

No one knows why I said yes. I don't like papers, I don't need papers (if it isn't on Stewart or Colbert, it isn't news!) and I certainly didn't want to put it in my cart and deal with the inevitable, "Are you going to pay for that?" from the checkout lady. (We all know that "dealing with checkout ladies" ranks somewhere just above "sand in underwear" on Allies Scale of Discomfort.)

But I took it.

Apparently, taking offered free stuff means that you have to stand there and listen to Paper Dude go through his entire spiel. It's like an invisible tether of obligation. Little did he know, I didn't even want the free one. If I didn't want his free paper, I sure as heck didn't want to sign up for a monthly subscription. And no, two gold dollars don't sweeten the deal. Unfortunately, I'm just so good at smiling politely (what? I am!) that he was so encouraged he felt the need to keep going and going. He even worked Cael into the pitch, saying how adorable he was and being quite the charmer.

Then he got to the end of his little checklist and I denied even the smallest subscription. The moment the final "no thank you" left my lips it was like a switch was flipped. Paper Dude's face fell flat, he turned his back to me and actually made "Have a nice day" sound like a threat.

I barely refrained from chasing after him, calling, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to reject you! Can I get the one that comes with the coins? They looked very shiny!"

Grocery stores should totally have back doors.

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Cael took his first unassisted step yesterday - in the bathtub. Because the logical transition is to go from utter terror of stepping without a hand-hold to free-styling through knee-deep water in a ceramic death-trap. Right?

Today he has taken a few more steps on his own, but still prefers crawling and walking with support. Maybe he's just waiting for his next bath?

Also, today was his first venture into the toilet bowl. Sensing a pattern?

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Cael turned one last Wednesday, and so we check in with his stats!

Cael @ 12 months:

His percentiles haven't changed, so he's still a runt with a big head. He's actually so small that he can't use his new car seat. It's designed for "one year or 20 lbs" and he's too little. You'd think his big head would count for something!

Due to his excessive drooling (Really, it's ridiculous. It's like he has a hole in his chin), he's on prescription cream for his chin and neck. Be sure to file that away so that you can all tease him about that when he's a teenager.

He's accomplishing a lot of things and is very proud of these accomplishments (and rightfully so). He's figured out what makes us applaud him and likes to applaud with us, usually anticipating it and starting the clapping for us. Sometimes he starts clapping for himself even before he's finished the task.

Walking is coming along. He will walk and run if he's got a hand hold, but is afraid to let go - even though I'm sure he could take a few steps on his own. He doesn't really use the hand for support so much as comfort.

He eats everything. Loves veggies and cheese and Cheerios. He's not nursing anymore and likes water more than milk, but he'll drink the latter. He had his first treat on his birthday, an overcooked carrot cupcake (one day I'll figure out how to use an oven - one day!) with cream cheese frosting.

He still doesn't know "no" (if his constant eating of pine cones is any indication).

Clio likes Cael's toys, but only when they're in his hand. Luckily, Cael is big on sharing. He likes to give her what he's playing with and watch her chase it.

Once a week Cael goes to the library for their "Brainy Babies" bilingual class. It's a lot of singing and chewing on rubber balls. So, not that different from when he's at home. "La Araña Pequeñita" is his favorite song.

Right now he's figured out that his dad is on the other side of the closed door, so he used his walker toy to haul himself over and has started banging on the door and crying. We'll all be glad when Ryan's finals are over!

Off to rescue him...

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No one told me that diapering a crawler was like trying to wrangle a wet rabbit.

Cael no longer lies on the changing table like a turtle on his back, immobile and perfectly content to stare at the ceiling. Now that he realizes he can move, he insists on doing so.

There's a painting on the wall of the nursery of the alphabet with animals. For some reason, this particular piece holds him entranced with a magic not seen since the great and powerful crack star. He can't tear his eyes away. Ryan and I are under strict orders to take him to it every time we enter the room and every time we get him up from his crib. And it's a fierce battle to keep him on the changing table when he's locked eyes on that painting.

The lap belt that comes with the table may as well be a daisy chain, 'cause it does nothing to strap him down. He can wiggle out of that before I even get it snapped. No lap belt can do what ankle and wrist restraints are required for (and I'm not convinced he couldn't get out of those).

When placed on his back, his first order of business is to roll onto his stomach. Then he grabs the railings and pulls himself to the edge, kicking and squirming while trying to launch himself face first onto the ground. If you grab him and flip him back over, he simply repeats the process.

Diapering, then, requires one hand holding onto the baby at all times. Be it latching on to an ankle or bracing his shoulders, if you don't have a hand on him, he's Evil Knievel. You are left with one hand to unbutton the twenty or so snaps on his outfit, remove the soiled diaper, retrieve a wipe from the warmer, wipe, grab a new diaper, wrestle it on (they really ought to sell diapers that fasten in the back), put his legs back in the outfit, and re-button the twenty snaps.

As you can likely guess, when the diaper is well and truly soiled (say, after a hearty meal of Baby Dal, for example) this process is considerably messier and requires changing the clothes of all parties involved (including the table).

Bring your garbage sacks, Gallagher fans, it's going to get messy.

(And Baby Dal poo totally deserves a post all it's own...)

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