I’m going to start off by saying that thing you’re not supposed to say: I find some of Alexander Payne’s films to be BO-RING. About Schmidt–Jack Nicholson and Kathy Bates in a hot tub? Are you kidding me? Gross. And this weekend, The Husband and I Red Boxed (new verb) The Descendants. Well. I’m not going to say it was terrible (I’ll let TH say that), but what we don’t have time for anymore are long, drawn-out looks meant to convey meaning, GEORGE. The Kid is waiting to be fed and I’m trying not to fall asleep so why don’t you just tell me what you’re trying to say and stop being all artsy about it?

And then, last night, the opposite of slow-moving: I turned the channel to the MTV Movie Awards, an annual event that, a dozen or so years ago, I actually looked forward to and planned viewing parties around, and now I feel like my eyeballs are being raped after two minutes of Russell Brand’s c-ck jokes and wild stage prancing. (Are we sure he’s not still on drugs?) “At what age group is this directed?” I asked TH, clutching my pearls, and he replied, “Young people are going to watch this and think they never have to get a job–all they have to do is make jokes and be pessimistic and they’ll become famous.”

Because TK is growing up so fast–in a week he’ll be six months old and he’s already sitting up in his high chair, dammit, and we’re out of that dark three-month tunnel of despair and into the glorious light of smiles and laughter and recognition and tomorrow he’ll be sneaking beer and trying to watch MTV even though I’ve banned it and somewhere, Russell Brand will be auditioning for a reality show and I will wonder where all the time went. SIX MONTHS. That’s old enough to wear sunscreen and start solids and get weaned (my body, my choice). And my trees-for-the-forest mentality already transforms his glee upon seeing my face into a teenage sullenness and harsh words pinged back and forth (“Why?!” “Because I SAID SO!”) and now we’re to the part that I’m wishing will not fly by: not an alien, not yet a teen. But I don’t want to be one of those mothers, either, who rues the passage of each second in that creepy “Oh I remember when you were just a baby” way that makes kids feel guilty for inadvertently obeying the laws of biology. I want to celebrate every moment, weigh it down with gratitude and move thankfully on to the next like I’m opening a gift, since that’s what they are anyway.

Yesterday TH filled the inflatable pool with water and I pulled TK’s new swim outfit onto his writhing frame and we placed him into the water, slowly, one toe at a time. And I realized that this was one of those moments–one that demands to be captured on video and in pictures as a First. Baby’s first swim. So I filmed and clicked as TK splashed and cried, and we labeled that first pool venture Not a Success. A few hours later, after our Sunday Afternoon Family Walk (with guest stars Yuengling and Pinot Grigio), the water was warmer and we tried again. Sans swim gear and swim diaper, because sometimes that’s how we roll–all wrong–and this time TK loved it. Almost as if to say, “Dudes. Just give it time. And stop loading me down with all those accoutrements.” (In my head, he sounds like Keanu Reeves in Point Break when he says this.) He splashed around and smiled and squinted up at us and I thought, “This. This is what Monday mornings and mood swings and my own brokenness cannot take away. This is what grace gives.” In my head, I sound wise and British when I say this. Like Judi Dench–not Russell Brand.